


Dust and Shadow

by marchlands



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Accuracy is Questionable, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Friends, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Forbidden Love, Historical, Infidelity, Romantic Angst, This is self-indulgent in the extreme but we are past apologies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 72,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchlands/pseuds/marchlands
Summary: “Truly, we are dust and shadow; truly, desire is blind and greedy; truly, hope deceives.” —PetrarchAurelia, prized daughter of the Valori, has returned to Florence a rich widow. During her absence, her childhood love, Lorenzo, has married the noble Clarice Orsini, and the political landscape of the city stands poised for great change. It is up to her to decide where her loyalties lie, but love and duty often have a way of standing on opposing sides.
Relationships: Lorenzo "Il Magnifico" de' Medici/Original Female Character(s), Tommaso Peruzzi/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 39





	1. Part 1: Home

**Author's Note:**

> This happened while watching the last season of Medici. I almost didn't write it - quite frankly, I'm surprised it exists at all, yet here we are. The Valori were a real Florentine family allied to the Medici, but 90% of the details I've included in this story - other than certain names and known political affiliations - are entirely of my own invention. I've played fast and loose, is what I'm saying.  
> Parts 1-3 are currently posted on Tumblr. If you want to skip ahead and read the other two, you may, but I'll be posting them onto AO3 over the weekend anyway. It's reader's choice. Thank you!

It dawned on Aurelia as she sat in the receiving room of the Medici that two years was not a very long time at all, and if not for little Gianpaolo tottering around the room she would think she’d never left Florence at all. The fruit and wine upon the table, the sound of the Duomo bells marking the hour while the drapes danced in a breeze coming in through the open windows… She had lived this scene a hundred times before. But there was her ruddy-cheeked son, cooing excitedly at every new sight, reminding her that in the scheme of a life two years could make all the difference.

“He’s a darling, isn’t he?” asked Bianca, scooping him into her bouncing lap. Gianpaolo, disappointed by the interruption, looked longingly down at the floor, but decided his imprisonment could be coped with for the price of one of his captor’s emerald earrings.

“Oh, he’s a darling, all right,” huffed Aurelia. “Especially when he decides how exciting it would be to make a run for the stairs. The times I’ve felt my heart drop out of my chest…”

“Ah, the feeling that never stops,” came Lucrezia’s knowing interjection.

Time could only be kind to a woman as beautiful as she. As a girl, Aurelia had loved to look at her, to note her ready laugh and intelligent eyes, the authority with which she ran her house and kept her children in line. For a girl raised without a mother, Lucrezia Tornabuoni was as impressive as any statue of the Madonna, she and her mother-in-law, the great Contessina de’ Bardi, before her. And Aurelia had wanted to be just like them—loved, respected, deferred to and valued. She watched with a mother’s pride as Lucrezia stretched her hand and ran the side of her finger down Gianpaolo’s smooth cheek. The knowing tone returned. “In a few short years he’ll come to you raving about being a man grown and demanding to be left to his own devices.”

“His own vices, you mean,” crowed Bianca, releasing her hostage back into the less intrusive care of his nurse.

The three women shared a laugh at the memories the words brought to mind. Lorenzo and Giuliano, Lucrezia’s two sons, were notoriously strong-willed, as were all the men of the Medici. _Stubborn_ would have been their mother’s descriptor of choice; _bull-headed_ their sister, Bianca’s.

Only God knew what sort of man little Gianpaolo would grow up to be.

Lucrezia reached over and squeezed her hand. “They will be so glad to see you, Aurelia, as are we. You have been missed in our home.”

As she had missed it in turn, desperately. For all the comforts of her married home in Genoa, she could never quite accept it as home. Even here, the Affini’s Florentine residence felt a world away from these better-known halls, the ins and outs of which she knew like the back of her hand from a childhood spent chasing after, or hiding away from, the very brothers of which they spoke.

“And your timing is impeccable,” Bianca cut in, breaking up her reverie with a conspiratorial smile. “Our new addition arrives today.”

All at once, Aurelia found cause to be riveted by a loose thread in her sober black skirts.

Bianca didn’t notice and carried on. “Lorenzo, married. Can you believe it? And just like _that_.” Her fingers snapped. The sound echoed in the chamber. From the long-suffering sigh that came from her mother, Aurelia knew there was something coming. “It’s good for the family, of course—an Orsini. But Giuliano said she’d intended to take the veil before Lorenzo came along and made the decision _without so much as asking the lady’s opinion_ —”

Lucrezia raised her eyes heavenward. “Blessed Virgin…” Aurelia’s lips twitched, despite her discomfort.

“—which shouldn’t surprise anyone, considering the way he sold his only sister to Bastiano for the sake of a vote.”

Aurelia’s eyes widened, and she couldn’t help but clutch the arm of her chair as she leaned forward and said, incredulous, “ _Bastiano_? You are to marry Bastiano Soderini?”

Bianca tossed her head and shot her mother a pointed look. “So I’ve been told.”

Bastiano Soderini had been after Bianca for ages, but how the oafish lump ever imagined himself favored was beyond all comprehension. It had to be his father, Luca’s, doing, Aurelia thought, as all things were with someone as mollycoddled as Bastiano. And Lorenzo had been eager enough in his new role as Priori representative to accept their offer.

She was just about to commiserate—Aurelia would rather join a convent than marry such an incurable fool—when the sound of clomping hooves and rattling carriage wheels came to a stop outside. Immediately, Lucrezia rose.

“That must be Clarice.”

She waved them out of the room with a “Come, come! Let’s receive her,” and Aurelia found she had no choice but to follow. She turned back once, to make sure the nurse had gotten hold of Gianpaolo and to take one final look at the room—that well-loved backdrop of rich tapestries and half-empty glasses, birdsong and life sounds filtering in from below. A reminder of countless days spent just this way, in laughter and easy friendship with people who were as dear to her as family.

Would it ever be this way again? After all, it was to be Clarice Orsini’s home now, too.

They filed down, Bianca taking the steps like an excited child, eager to get the first glance at her sister-in-law. Lucrezia threw the doors wide open to the bright light of high morning so that, at first, Aurelia could see nothing but white. It took a minute to blink the sun away, but when she had, it was to gaze upon the open face and hazel eyes of Clarice Orsini, the woman whose noble name had dashed her hopes, and whose presence here would change everything.

* * *

Except everything had already changed, and long before that lady alighted in front of the palazzo of the Medici. It changed that January morning two years ago, when she was summoned into her father’s study to find her brothers, Filippo and Niccolò, standing around like a pair of apologetic sphinxes as their father announced, in no uncertain terms, that he had arranged a match between her and Enrico Affini. Vaguely, she remembered meeting the gentleman, a Florentine merchant, at a feast the previous autumn. He had been solicitous toward her, courtly, even, but he was also a good thirty years older and he lived in Genoa. Marrying him would mean leaving her city, her friends. Everything she loved was in Florence. Naturally, she protested; naturally, her protests came to naught; there were advantages to be had, her father insisted.

So it was that, not a month later, she was ushered into church and married to a stranger, a man she met with but a handful of times before the wedding. At the feast, Giuliano de’ Medici kissed her cheek and said, with an unwelcome smirk, “Now don’t you wish you’d married me instead?”

She’d nearly thrown her shoe at his head.

All things considered, it could have been worse. Her new husband was prosperous, well-liked both in Florence and in Genoa for his straight dealings and efficiency in trade. He was well-mannered, charming, and for a man in middle age, not without his looks. At least he had all his teeth.

The day of the wedding he addressed his new bride with the bashful air of a man who knew he’d made a winning bargain and so asked for very little in return. Not love, but kindness and, God willing, a son—the heir that had so painfully eluded his previous wife.

Aurelia delivered on both scores. Gianpaolo came within the year, and as for kindness, she never had reason to do otherwise. Enrico let her come and go as she pleased, kept her well-stocked in all manner of books, gowns, and trinkets and, after their son’s birth, left her bed quite alone.

Any other woman would thank God and be happy, especially when he had the consideration to die the very next year and leave her a wealthy widow. But not her. For two years and try as she might, Aurelia’s thoughts invariably turned to Florence. To home, and to Lorenzo.

* * *

_Stupid girl_ , she thought to herself. After making her excuses to Madonna Clarice (“How wonderful to meet you! I hope you will be very happy here. Oh!—Is that the hour? I’m afraid we must be going, but I will see you again at the wedding feast…”) she’d raced back to the Affini home and all but flung herself into bed, doors shut, feeling positively ill.

It was an injustice on God’s part to have made the lady both noble _and_ beautiful. She had hoped that if Clarice Orsini had considered becoming a nun she should at least have had the grace to be ugly. Not so—how horrid.

Aurelia groaned, knowing she was being undignified, very unlike a Contessina, but allowed herself the moment because the wedding feast was in a few short hours and she would have to be the picture of welcoming civility then.

 _Stupid, stupid girl_. She ran a tired hand down her face and stared up at the scarlet canopy of her bed.

Even before she left, Lorenzo’s passion had always belonged to another. But she had flattered herself to think that his mind, at least—the part of him that dreamed, that knew the kind of Lorenzo he wanted to be and the Florence he wanted to build—belonged to her. She’d clung to that hope in Genoa with all the fervent grasp of one who knows, deep down, that the battle is hopeless, that the day will never be won. Even when the Medici had considered a matrimonial alliance with their Valori friends, it was clear that he wasn’t meant for her. Giuliano, his younger brother, had been the proposed groom, the firstborn being far too valuable to throw before an old Florentine family, yes, but not a noble one.

No doubt a hundred thousand girls all over Italy would have jumped at the chance to wed the Medici’s shining second son, but not Aurelia. Enrico became the penance paid for a match she’d fervently declined, and even now, tired and miserable, she would rather be Aurelia Affini for the rest of time than marry Giuliano de’ Medici, dear idiot that he was.

But she’d wanted to marry his brother. And she wasn’t as big a fool as Bastiano Soderini, wandering where he’d never be wanted. She’d believed he cared for her, in his way. She knew he had.

_But we were children then._

_I am a mother now, and he is head of his family._

It was that thought that spurred her on, reminded her of who she was. Aurelia Valori, daughter of one of the first families of Florence. Her husband had been an important man, a good one too, at that, and her son would be a great one if she had anything to say about it. She would go to that wedding feast, smile at Clarice Orsini, and she’d be damned if she let Lorenzo de’ Medici read a single thing beyond her cheerful expression.

She rose from the bed, threw open the doors to her chamber, and called down for her servant. In an instant, Valentina’s blonde head rose into view.

“Yes, Madonna?”

“Ready the green brocade for the feast today.” She said it before she could stop herself, knowing that if she hesitated she would begin to hear the voices of the Genoese ladies in her head, the ones who would gasp and whisper if they saw her out of mourning dress. Well she was through with mourning, and with Genoa.

This was Florence, and it was time she started acting like it.

* * *

Strands of music poured into the street, as did the sound of revels that would only increase in volume and enthusiasm as the wine flowed along with the coming of night. For now, the sun hung butter-soft in the western sky, glinting off the rich colors worn by the partygoers. The atmosphere was intoxicating. Aurelia had not been to a feast since her husband’s passing; she certainly hadn’t worn a dress this bold—emerald shot with gold and fitted to perfection. The wide neckline left her shoulders bare, and the color brought out the green in her eyes, the red in her cascading hair, which was polished to a shining gleam and partially gathered by Valentina’s skillful hands into a jewel-encrusted braid that haloed atop her head. Not for the first time, she was grateful for her husband’s trade in cloth; it guaranteed the very best of gowns, and this one made her feel like her old self again.

As she entered the Medici gardens, face raised up to the late afternoon sun, she allowed herself to enjoy her situation. She was home again at last, and she needn’t ever leave again. The certainty of her own independence was as heady as anything to be served in a glass tonight. She let it take over as she came across faces from her past, men and women she’d known all her life who took her hands and kissed her cheek and welcomed her home.

Then she caught sight of Bianca in the crowd, her face at once downcast and murderous as Bastiano, he of the self-satisfied grin, weaved through the throng intent on getting to his presumed intended, no doubt to vaunt their farce of a betrothal.

This she would not allow.

“Bianca!” she called, racing forward and looping arms with her friend. She snuck a peek over her shoulder and watched Bastiano’s face fall at the interception. Good.

When she had pulled them to the shelter of a nearby archway, she took both of Bianca’s hands in her own and said, “My dear, you look thunderous.”

What a difference a few hours could make. Bianca was beautiful as ever in turquoise and pink. In a better mood she would seem summer itself, yet something unpleasant pulled at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were like flint as she hissed, “I could _kill_ Lorenzo, truly I could!” Oh dear. And then the real blow: “I told him I wouldn’t marry Bastiano, that Guglielmo and I are in love.”

The incredulity on her face made Bianca’s spine stiffen. “I did! Ought we be ashamed? How can I make vows before God knowing my heart belongs to another?”

Aurelia could have pointed out that Bianca de’ Medici would hardly be the first woman maneuvered into marrying a man against her will, but she wasn’t about to ruin her friend’s impassioned speech with something as threadbare as the truth. Her eyes still glimmered like diamonds, and Aurelia wondered how Lorenzo could ever think this a situation under his control.

What had Lucrezia said? _Blessed Virgin…_

She sighed. “I take it from your desire to turn murderess that your brother didn’t take kindly to the news?”

“He said Jacopo would never stop plotting against our family. But it is Lorenzo who plots! He sacrifices the happiness of his only sister over a treaty? I, who have loved and supported him, and he cannot do this one thing, the most _important_ thing, for me?”

By the end, Bianca’s voice had grown shrill with distress. Not knowing what else to do, Aurelia traced circles along the back of her hands, the way she did for Gianpaolo when he fussed and refused to quieten. “Very well, Bianca,” she said. “Very well.”

It seemed to work. Bianca calmed, then sniffled. There were tears in her eyes that she did her best to bravely blink back. “It was supposed to be difficult, not impossible,” she whispered, half to herself. “And they’re supposed to be on _my_ side.”

Merciful Christ but she‘d probably kill Lorenzo, too, in that moment. The great imbecile.

She squeezed Bianca’s hands. “I am on your side, Bianca, always. Yours and Guglielmo’s. Or do you forget my mother was a Pazzi?”

Despite herself, Bianca allowed her mouth to quirk up at the reminder. The fact that Caterina Valori had been born Caterina de’ Pazzi was a fact often overlooked when Jacopo and the Medici were at each other’s throats, when Aurelia’s own father, Bartolomeo, fielded constant insults from his late wife’s uncle every time he spoke out in favor of the Medici in the Signoria. Which was always.

Bianca’s reluctant smile was like a thread of sunny yarn Aurelia felt compelled to pull. She remembered how easy she’d seemed that morning, how cheerful while playing with Gianpaolo, no doubt imagining the children she would have with her own beloved. And by God, if it was what Bianca wanted, then those children would bear the name of Pazzi—whether Lorenzo de’ Medici wanted it or not. Someone deserved to marry for love.

And she’d be lying if she said she didn’t take pleasure at the thought of encouraging this particular mutiny, knowing how stubbornly (and unfairly) against it Lorenzo was.

“Bianca, do you know what I did when my family was set upon giving me away to Giuliano?”

A line appeared between Bianca’s brows. “You struck him in the head and called him an idiot?”

“Not that part,” she said quickly, though she would wear the memory proudly until her dying day. At Bianca’s bemused expression: “I weighed my options, Bianca. Decide what you can live with, and what you can’t.” She paused. “Could you be happy as Bastiano’s wife?”

The affronted look on Bianca’s face was as clear a refusal as even a blind man would need.

“Then it’s simple,” Aurelia shrugged, “Marry Guglielmo instead.”

Bianca blinked. “You’re joking.”

“I am not.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“Logistically, perhaps not. _Philosophically_ …” This last word, all too associated with the eldest Medici brother, earned her a roll of the eyes that made them both laugh.

She was suddenly taken by the prospect of Bianca winning the day and surprising them all, of taking her life into her own hands, chasing her happiness the way Aurelia wished she herself had done, before the choices had been made for her. “You are free, Bianca. Free of duty, free of obligation to anyone but yourself. I say you deserve to be happy, and if Guglielmo is your happiness, then stop waiting for permission that will never come!”

Bianca’s eyes, first outraged, then hopeless, were now alight with hope. Still, she had the sense to hesitate. “But how can I do it?”

Aurelia made a point of gesturing at the distracted merrymakers. Between the talking and the dancing, the music, the social diplomacy, and the drinking, no one was paying much attention to the two young women huddled in the shade of a column. Today could be a perfect opportunity.

Bianca’s mouth went agape in understanding. “Right _now_?”

“Why not? Your mother is seeing to the guests, Lorenzo is mingling, Giuliano…” She craned her neck to locate her very own rejected suitor. He was across the garden, golden as ever, more handsome than anyone had a right to be, and…

_Oh, no._

Her face froze. Bianca panicked. “What? What is it?”

“Nothing,” she answered, too quickly to be convincing. She tried again: “Nothing. Giuliano wouldn’t know a bolt of lightning if it hit him.” She wiped the worry from her face and beamed up at her friend. “If you make your escape now I’ll make sure you’re not missed.”

A scandalized giggle poured from Bianca’s mouth, but she looked joyful for once, and Aurelia couldn’t bring herself to think on the potential consequences of being accomplice to an elopement.

“This is madness.”

“Yes,” she quipped, “the poets do call it that.”

This time it was Bianca who grasped her hands. Her face was shining; she looked like a woman who could conquer the world. It was a painfully Medici expression, and for a moment Aurelia felt a spasm of guilt at the knowledge that she was acting behind everyone’s backs. 

Especially when she looked beyond Bianca’s shoulder and locked eyes with none other than Lorenzo.

Her heart began to pound in her ears so that she barely heard his sister’s voice as she gave her repeated thanks. (“I will never forget this, I swear it!”) When she left in a swirl of pink skirts, Aurelia barely noticed.

* * *

It was one thing to say she’d be unreadable, and quite another to put it into practice. As Lorenzo excused himself from the guest with whom he had been speaking and made the measured turn over to her side of the garden, Aurelia took a minute to review her strategy. She couldn’t be sure he hadn’t noticed Bianca’s agitated manner or the way in which she’d left the party, but she had promised to cover for her and she would keep her word. That meant delaying his curiosity for as long as possible, replacing the puzzle of his sister with a puzzle of her own.

This feeling, heart racing, palms tingling, mind buzzing like a bee in spring, had colored her moments with Lorenzo de’ Medici for as long as she could remember. He was a formidable opponent, always five steps ahead in every possible direction. The Valori, with their simpler, straight-forward ways had no choice but to be dazzled. Niccolò, the youngest of her older brothers, was even a regular member of his coterie, a band of well-educated sons of the Florentine elite whose idea of fun it was to get roaring drunk and wax philosophical until the early hours of the morning. With them, Lorenzo was showy and bright, eager to please in a way that reminded her of his more boyish days, when all he sought was a smile of approval and to be the cleverest one in the room. That was the Lorenzo of her brothers’ minds and of her father’s: a young man, full of spirit and promise, who had a nice way with words. But he was more than that to Aurelia. He was both challenge and key, the flint that sparked something in her no one else had come even close to discovering.

As he rounded the corner Aurelia took advantage of the angle, of the way they were momentarily hidden from the other’s view, to compose herself. To rearrange her face and bearing into a more serene shape. Perversely, the more she tried to forget how she had encouraged his sister to defy him, the more the thought sprung to mind, heightening her awareness of him until, by the time he drew near, she felt thirteen-years-old again, recalling a time when they sat closer and stared longer at each other than they’d ever dare to do in public, all for the sake of a never-ending game of chess.

She dropped into an affectedly demure curtsy. “Lorenzo de’ Medici.” This close, an arms-breadth away, the clear blue of his eyes was staggering. He was dressed in purple and sable, looking every bit the victorious prince celebrating his latest success. Unlike his bride, whom Aurelia had cursorily greeted earlier, he seemed at ease, content. Taller, somehow. His new authority sat well with him.

The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. He inclined his head seriously and played along. "Madonna Affini.”

The name, said in his voice, was like a blade between the ribs. But she knew he hadn’t meant it that way, couldn’t know how much it rankled, so she ironed out a smile, the one she’d selected for tonight along with the gown, and said, “I congratulate your mother on her advantageous match.”

It was brazen. Any other man would be offended, but Lorenzo merely grinned, toothy and honest, and she felt an unreasonable satisfaction at seeing with her own eyes that he found humor in his present situation, that he didn’t seem a man enamored by the accomplished Clarice Orsini. _Not yet, at least._

For a beat he did nothing but look her over. Aurelia’s skin warmed where his eyes trailed, not salaciously, the way Giuliano would have done when playing the scoundrel, but appraisingly. Inspecting. As if he could unravel her disguise with a single glance.

The thrilling thing was that he could. If she floundered he would wonder, and she couldn’t afford to have him wonder, not when her list of secrets now overlapped with Bianca’s. So she let him look while trying to appear calm, while trying not to think about how the sight of him felt achingly like home because, surely, he’d be able to see that, too.

Finally, after what seemed an age, he relented, moved his gaze back to her face. “You look well.” It was a statement of fact, it wasn’t flattery, yet Aurelia couldn’t halt her pleasure at hearing it. She had wanted to look well for him, in spite of the part of her that felt silly for being so vain—and at his wedding feast, no less. (Would she ever be able to wear this dress again without blushing for shame at the memory?)

Lorenzo continued, a playful tilt to his head: “Did Genoa get too exciting for you?”

The jest in his voice sanded down her nervousness. “It has its charms, I suppose.” She shrugged. “It’s not Florence.”

He made a sound at the back of his throat, a _hmm_ of understanding. Florence was in his blood, as resolutely as it was in hers. People like them would never be happy anywhere else. “No, I imagine not.” For a second he rocked on his heels, a curiously timid gesture that stuck in her mind like stone in a shoe. Could it be that he dissembled as much as she?

He changed tack before she could ponder the implications of such a question, asked in a much brighter tone, “Have you been to see Sandro yet?” while gesturing in a vaguely general direction, as if Sandro were likely to emerge from a hedge at any moment.

Sandro Botticelli was an artist grown amongst the Medici. As a boy he’d shared their tutors and their games, moving on as he grew to take part in their debates on topics as lofty as the artistic and the divine (which Sandro would say were one and the same). He was a man who saw much without appearing to see, a truthful painter and an honest friend, both things she’d lacked in her time away from Florence. Lorenzo went on, with a touch of pride: “I aim to get him his own workshop.”

“Well!” she exclaimed, genuinely pleased. “It’s high time you stopped hiding him away. But I warn you—now that I’m back I may just steal him from you.”

Something mischievous flashed at that. “You can certainly try, madonna, but I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. He’s in the grips of a terrible inspiration; he’ll be useless to you until he’s finished.” He leaned in close, hands clasped behind his back as if to intimate a great secret. This close, she could see the dark lashes of his eyes. His breath whispered against her throat—right there, where her own breath caught—and she resisted the mad urge to step even closer, onlookers be damned. When his words came they took a moment to register. “He’s gotten it in his head to paint Vespucci’s wife.”

“Simonetta?” She drew back in a wide-eyed surprise that mingled with the inconvenient memory of what she’d seen earlier while speaking with Bianca—Giuliano making eyes at the very married lady in question.

Lorenzo’s blue gaze sharpened, hawk-like and keen. “You know the lady.”

Aurelia saw her chance; if she gave him this mystery perhaps he’d keep from mulling on another. Deliberately, she angled her face towards his, blood buzzing with the realization that anyone who looked at them right now would have cause for scandalized speculation. _At his wedding feast_ , her mind reminded her over and over again. She told her mind to mind its own business. “Tell me, Lorenzo,” she said, rising on her toes. She saw the tiny smile that played at his lips as he bent his head so that she almost whispered in his ear. “Is being an incurable busybody a requirement to joining the Signoria, or did you acquire that all on your own?”

He did laugh then and she warmed at the sound, pleased at the knowledge that she had been the one to coax it out. _Did Clarice have any idea of the things that made him laugh?_ He restored the respectable distance between their bodies, then looked her over once more. If she didn’t know any better she would think his expression almost wistful.

“I’ve missed you, you know.”

Her smile froze. She wished he’d said it differently, teasingly, or with a touch of humor perhaps. Not so plainly. Not with that honest duck of the head. Not like he meant it. She felt unmoored, didn’t know what to say or what to make of the admission—why was he always so hard to read?—knowing only that he’d missed her. That he’d thought of her, maybe, from time to time.

She should be happy, she should stop wanting, she should learn to be content— _would_ learn, because right now her eyes caught something in his that sparked a hope that had no business existing. Not _at his wedding feast_. He drew a breath, seemed about to say something, then—

"Lorenzo!” The moment came apart. She felt a touch at her shoulder. Lucrezia beamed at her with an oblivious “hello, dear,” then turned to her son. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but might I whisk you away? There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”

“Someone else, you mean?” His mother tutted good-naturedly. For a feast, there was very little eating and altogether too much playacting.

“Go on,” Aurelia urged, reaffixing that easily uncaring expression he’d made temporarily slip. She needed to get away from him as soon as possible, away from this place, away from his beautiful, sad-looking wife. She remembered Bianca’s beholden expression from earlier. _I will never forget this._ She’d better not. And she had better be married by morning.

Lorenzo let his mother pull him back into the fray, but just as she began to think herself safe, he turned back and called to her, that conquering Medici expression on his handsome face. “We have all the time in the world now, don’t we?”


	2. Part 2: Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bianca’s mission doesn’t go quite as planned, and Aurelia is forced to complete an unpleasant task.

Morning came, and with it the realization that she may have acted rashly. What had seemed so simple at the feast—that Bianca and Guglielmo were in love and deserved to marry—took on different shapes in hindsight, so many of them, in fact, that she could no longer say with any certainty that she had been correct in encouraging an elopement. Had she let herself be carried away by the moment until she’d forgotten that Bianca’s situation was entirely different from her own? Had it been an impulsive mistake, or had she done it just to spite Lorenzo?

She was dizzy with doubt, and it didn’t help that she had absolutely no notion of what had happened to Bianca since they last spoke, or that the cold and sterile walls of the Palazzo d’Affini seemed to be closing in on her by the minute.

Her husband’s family thought very little of Florence, that much was clear the moment she moved in and noted the austerity of the interior, so different from the luxuries of her marital home. Furniture was sparse and functional, there were few tapestries on the walls and very little art. It was a place devoid of comforts where one had no choice but to think, and every day, upon entry, she grew more and more convinced it would be better off as a convent or a crypt. The gardens were less judgmental, and it was to these that she escaped some time around noon—Gianpaolo in tow—when she could no longer stomach the impersonality of the house. Everything made much more sense here, with its perfect symmetry and the way the perfectly shaped hedges enclosed lush flower beds from one end of the boundary to the other. And if the garden’s central feature, a stone fountain picturing Minerva’s taming of Pegasus, was strangely pagan when considering the devoutly Christian sensibility of the Affinis, it suited Aurelia just fine.

Usually, she found comfort in the capable lines of the goddess, in the certainty of her expression, both powerful and sublimely beautiful. Not today—and she shot the lady an accusatory look, as an oblivious Gianpaolo happily guided a pair of carved horses over a patch of decorative stone. Unbidden, the thinking urge returned.

How would it look to the families of Florence that Bianca de’ Medici had so abruptly switched husbands? It was a question she should have asked herself yesterday.

Her betrothal to Bastiano was common knowledge. If she showed up in the city Guglielmo Pazzi’s wife, chatter would be inevitable, the kind that left a gaudy mark upon a person’s reputation—upon a woman’s, especially. There would be anger and scandal, no doubt from the jilted Soderini, whom Lorenzo was relying upon to support the treaty with Milan. A treaty that—when she thought about it—could very well work in favor of the people and increase the prosperity of the city.

Dear God, what had she done?

Now, when she looked up at wise Minerva all she saw was reproach. Her mastery over the winged beast, once so inspiring, serving only as a taunting reminder of the abysmal way in which Aurelia’s own judgement had failed.

She had wanted so badly to come home. Had missed the excitement of a city at the center of so much art and philosophy, of great change and radical thinkers. But now that she’d returned she felt lacking. Inadequate. Foolish. Like a young girl playing a role for which she was not suited.

But there had to be some way for them to fix it, some way for them to make it right—

_Them._

For all Aurelia’s hand in the doing, it was the Medici who would be forced to scramble to save Bianca from disrepute. She groaned, then dropped her head into her hands as she thought of Lucrezia and how agitated with worry she must be if she hadn’t heard from her only daughter by now.

“Madonna?” Valentina’s voice came hesitant over her shoulder. Aurelia smoothed back her hair, tried to ignore the embarrassment that surged at having been caught in such an obviously downcast position. As always, she was grateful when her servant pretended not to notice. “This has just arrived,” she said, holding out a sealed note.

Aurelia gave her thanks and broke it open. The hand was clearly Bianca’s.

_It has gone wrong. Please come at once._

Her stomach lurched at the words and she realized, to her shame, that a coward’s part of her had hoped to avoid this, to forget, eventually, the role she had played in Bianca’s potential ruin.

Some friend she was turning out to be.

No. She refused to leave Bianca to her fate. She felt a fool, but this went far beyond pride: it was a matter of honor, and she would do whatever it took to make amends. She left her son to Valentina and made for the home of the Medici. It was not a long walk, and the journey would clear her head.

_It has gone wrong._ Such a vague statement. Had the sacrament been halted, or were Bianca and Guglielmo now married, with their families refusing to recognize the union? There were a million ways an elopement could go wrong and she had to be ready to move against any number of them.

She knocked on the door, squared her shoulders and held her breath until it opened.

She’d prepared to find some kind of a scene—crying, perhaps; yelled reproach; a body on the floor—she certainly didn’t account for an empty courtyard, or the way the air inside hung hushed and heavy. She winced as she moved up the steps to the corridor that led to the private apartments, at the way they echoed through the empty space, making her feel like a naughty child, or a particularly clumsy thief.

_Heavenly Father,_ she prayed, _I am done with schemes._ They were too much work, and even greater trouble. From now on she would keep her head down and mind her own business.

She reached the door to Bianca’s chamber. “Bianca?” she called. “It’s me. May I come in?” After a few seconds of silence, Aurelia tried the door and pushed it open.

Bianca sat propped up in bed, hair down, blue dress completely rumpled as if she’d worn it for days. Perhaps she had. Aurelia felt a fresh wave of guilt at the sight—at Bianca’s face, wan, tear-streaked and defeated—knowing as she did that it was a direct result of her bad advice.

“Bianca…” she repeated quietly. She sat on the bed and reached for her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, asked, “What has happened?”

Bianca sniffed. Raised her free hand to swipe at fresh tears. “My brother—his men found us. They… they beat Guglielmo. I told them to stop, but they wouldn’t…”

“I am so sorry.”

“We are all but married,” she continued, voice barely above a whisper, as if she didn’t have the strength for more. “We were together as husband and wife. They have to let us be together, don’t they?” Her eyes met Aurelia’s, a desperate glint in them as she repeated, “Don’t they?”

“Of course they will. We will make this right, I promise.” She paused, remembering the profound quiet of the house. “But where is everyone?”

“Scheming, perhaps.” She was heartened to see that Bianca was still capable of scorn; it meant there was still some life left in her.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Aurelia. “Anything at all?”

Bianca considered for a moment. Then, haltingly, as if fearing a denial: “Would you find Guglielmo? Make sure he’s all right and… and bring back word of him. Tell him… tell him that I love him.”

She deserved this, God knew she did, and she’d promised _anything_.

She hoped Bianca was too distressed to notice the way her smile froze upon her lips. “You can count on me,” she said, even as her confidence plummeted to a level that could only be described as subterranean. _Bianca is all that matters._

“God bless you.” She took Aurelia’s hand in both of hers, the grateful earnestness in her gaze making her teeth grit. Yes, she could believe God had a hand in this turn of events. Divine justice, riddled with an irony that would be humorous if it didn’t stick in the throat like a lump of coal.

She departed a few hours later, after leaving Bianca in, if not higher spirits, then at least holding on to a shred of hope, knowing the next day would come with news of Guglielmo. Aurelia retraced her steps through the now candlelit hallways of the Medici, her previous urgency replaced by a weariness half Bianca’s and half her own.

A whole day gone, and the situation so out of hand that it wouldn’t surprise her to know a good number of their acquaintance had heard some version of the events by now. The seediest version, with their ill luck. The kind that traveled like wildfire, carried on winds of envy and ill-will.

And how on earth was she meant to speak with Guglielmo?

The answer, pondered over the course of a sleepless night, was dishearteningly straightforward—well, she would just have to knock on the Pazzi’s door, wouldn’t she? At worst, she would be thrown out or subjected to one of Jacopo’s venom-laced rants, but at least Guglielmo would have some notion of her presence. Would know, hopefully, that she was there in Bianca’s stead.

She rose at dawn and left quietly, pulling up the hood of her cloak against the cool air of morning. Disbelief marked every forward step. It wasn’t a matter of never having been inside her uncle’s home; she had done so a few times as a little girl, when Guglielmo’s father, Antonio, was still alive. But Jacopo had never liked Bartolomeo Valori, never thought him worthy of his older brother’s daughter, Caterina, who was only nine years younger and more of a sister to him than a cousin. Now that she was gone, he had no reason to contain his loathing. The feeling was mutual, so she imagined the sight of her at his door would be nothing but unwelcome.

_For Bianca,_ she thought as she gave her name to the stern-faced guard who opened the door and left her to wait. If her husband’s home was made for contemplation, surely the Pazzi’s was made to intimidate. Dark stone leached the light of day from the circular space, and the imposing statue of a passant horse set into the middle served as a reminder of the grandeur of the family, of an ancient name and an iron will.

“What are you doing here?”

Aurelia whirled at the sound. It was not the voice of Jacopo de’ Pazzi at all. It was his nephew, Francesco. She was momentarily thrown by the sight of him, tall and lean and powerful, and not at all happy to see her. More than that, she saw that her discomfort was noted.

“Has your brother returned?” she asked, hoping the lack of a preamble would curb the dissecting look he now shot at her, one laced with a bit of Jacopo’s contempt. He wouldn’t cow her. She refused to let a Pazzi make her feel small. When he took a step forward, she urged her feet not to give up ground.

“You have not yet answered my question,” he said, dark head tilted as if she were an insect that had wandered in from the street, one he aimed to be rid of shortly.

“I am here for Guglielmo.”

He huffed a humorless laugh, the faint light of early morning deepening the shadows on his chiseled face. “You are here for the Medici.”

“I am here for your brother’s wife,” she corrected.

One of Francesco’s dark brows rose, and she marveled at how much disdain could fit into such a small gesture. “My brother has no wife.”

“In the eyes of God, he does. Ask him,” she challenged. “I’m sure he would agree.”

He seemed to consider this for a moment. Considered her, hands behind his back in an all-too familiar pose. _For heaven’s sake._ All these men and their confidently probing stares—as if the world and all its secrets belonged to them. She was beginning to understand why Clarice Orsini might have favored life as a nun.

Finally, he spoke. “What do you want?”

Resolve was often the hardest part, she told herself. Had she not won half the battle by coming here at all? In an hour’s time she could be back with her friend, and away from this place that made her feel spied upon from every angle.

“Bianca wants to know that Guglielmo is well.”

Francesco scowled. “No thanks to your friend, Lorenzo.”

The words brought to mind what Bianca had said, the distress in her eyes. _My brother’s men… They beat him. I told them to stop, but they wouldn’t listen._ Guglielmo was not a fighting man. He wrote love letters and had little head for politics. As a boy, he used to look out the window for hours, picking out birds that flew past when he should have been focusing on his Plato.

She shook her head at the thought of him beaten as Bianca screamed.

“Believe me, I am not feeling very friendly toward Lorenzo on that score. It should have been made clear that your brother was not to be harmed.”

Her response must have abated some of his anger, because she saw the tightness ease from his jaw. Noticed, for the first time, the worry lines in his forehead, the weary set of his shoulders. Francesco had always been serious, but now he seemed burdened, somehow. And who wouldn’t be, with a guardian like Jacopo?

He frowned. “He and Bianca should never have run off together in the first place.”

Aurelia sighed, brushed a strand of auburn hair away from her face. She couldn’t recall the last time she had spoken to Francesco. A few years after his father’s death, perhaps? The last thing she wanted to do was fight, but she would defend Bianca if she had to. “What should they have done instead?” she asked. “Bianca told Lorenzo the truth. If Guglielmo had done the same, if he had come to you, would you have supported their marriage?”

His eyes snapped back to hers, and she recalled that phrase again: iron will. He showed it now as he cut her a look and said, “I _love_ my brother.”

“I know you do.” And so would anyone, with the way his stormy eyes glinted like onyx. He would probably defy God himself to prove it, if need be. She carried on. “So, Guglielmo—is he well?”

He made her wait for an answer. “All things considered.”

She let out a breath. “Good, I am glad.” He looked at her dubiously, as though he couldn’t believe Aurelia would ever be concerned for Guglielmo’s welfare. The false accusation prickled. All these pointless resentments… _Of course_ she cared about Guglielmo. They had played together as children and he was in love with one of her dearest friends. Did Francesco really think the Medici had spent the last 10 years poisoning the Valori against them?

She had but one task left and she could go. She moved towards the door as she said it and Francesco followed, just as eager to see her gone, no doubt, as she was to leave. If she wanted judgment, there were far more cheerful places to get it. “Bianca sends her love. I trust you will convey the message to your brother.” It came out more briskly than intended, but Aurelia was beyond caring.

Francesco remained infuriatingly impassive as he took in her arched brow and the pursed set of her lips. He might have nodded, but she couldn’t be sure, and she was struck anew by how different he was to Guglielmo, whose face displayed every emotion without disguise. Well, she wasn’t about to pry out a verbal response. She gestured to the door, but he didn’t move.

“You are lucky my uncle is not at home.”

She turned to him, exasperation making her words come short. “This is ridiculous, Francesco. Secret meetings, secret weddings. Plots and sabotage, deception at every turn. It doesn’t have to be this way. Why do you follow Jacopo in his hatred?”

A step too far. She knew it as soon as she said it. His gaze shuttered, the tightness returned. “Why do you follow your Medici?” he volleyed back. “My uncle gave my brother and me a home when we had none. What have the Medici ever done for us that makes them worthy of our loyalty—or for the Valori’s, for that matter?”

Aurelia stared, mouth falling open in disbelief at such a question. “They are our friends!” she exclaimed. “We don’t _ask_ for anything in return.” Was the notion of friendship that foreign to him?

Francesco shook his head, one side of his mouth turned up in a sneer, but his eyes were not unkind. He seemed almost sorry for her, and it grated at her far more than disdain. As if she were an idiot incapable of understanding the truth. “Friends are equals, Aurelia. Do the Medici see you as their equal?” He let the blow land, then moved around her to open the door. “Good day,” he looked squarely into her eyes. “Cousin.”

* * *

Bianca seemed comforted by the news of Guglielmo. Of course, Aurelia could not claim to have actually seen or spoken to him, but she knew in her heart that Francesco would not play her false. _I love my brother._ He would pass on the message, for Guglielmo’s sake if for no one else’s.

Ever the Penelope, Bianca was still in that wrinkled blue dress, and nothing Aurelia could say or do would make her change out of it, though she did allow her, after some coaxing, to brush the tangles out of her long brown hair. They passed the time in silence. Once in a while, Bianca would sniff or swipe at tears with the back of her hand. To look at her, one would think Guglielmo had well and truly died.

_Is this what love’s supposed to be?_ thought Aurelia. A bottomless well of desperate longing that left nothing in its wake but silence? It was certainly what love had left of her father—severed him, somehow, from the things that made him whole. She thought of the way he seemed to stare into space sometimes with a terrible distant look, and an echo of that same empty expression appeared on Bianca’s face in the mirror. All too easily, she imagined the deep unhappiness that would consume her if she was kept forever from Guglielmo.

A brisk knock pierced the quiet. Bianca’s eyes darted to hers through the glass a moment before the door opened, revealing Lorenzo. He looked strangely at ease for a man who had just dragged his sister from the altar. _Rested_ , she thought resentfully, thinking of her own disturbed night’s sleep. Aurelia squeezed one of Bianca’s shoulders before turning to leave.

“No, no.” He held up a hand, although he didn’t look her way. “You may as well stay and hear the news.” Bianca all but yanked her back to sit next to her on the bed. _Must I?_ she wanted to ask.

Lorenzo turned his attention to his sister, all benevolent smile, and declared: “You are free to marry.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You heard me.” That smile grew wider at the sight of their combined open-mouthed surprise. “You are now officially betrothed to Guglielmo.” Bianca’s face changed in an instant. It was as if the clouds had parted, revealing the sunny, slightly mischievous expression that was typically hers. She launched into Lorenzo’s arms with a litany of “Thank you, brother. Thank you!”

Aurelia couldn’t believe it. Was it really over? What about Jacopo and the treaty and the Soderini?

She looked up and caught Lorenzo’s gaze upon her.

_Oh._ So not over. Not quite.

When Bianca all but floated out of the room to share the news with her mother, Aurelia tried to make her way past him to follow. No luck. At the door, he caught her wrist and held her there. “Aurelia.” She wouldn’t look at him. She had been brave enough for one day, and yes, it had been penance and she’d deserved every excruciating moment under Francesco’s disapproving glare, but it would really be more convenient if they did this tomorrow. Her cheeks burned traitorously.

“I know it was you who helped her run away.” His voice was a deep, lazy rumble, almost pleasant if not for the cross undercurrent, and she felt it moving through her in a way that made her breath catch.

She lifted her chin and kept her gaze on the wall. “I did no such thing.”

“Encouraged her, then.” Her denial-by-semantics seemed to amuse him, which made it easier for her to remember her earlier outrage at his sister’s plight.

“You left them very little choice.”

Lorenzo tugged at her wrist, pulling her closer, and she turned her head without meaning to. Mistake. But at this rate, she was full of them, so what was one more? “Do you have any idea of the deals I’ve had to make,” he asked, “to undo what you did in a moment?”

Against her better judgment, she shot him a too-sweet smile even as her heart thrummed like a bird. “No price too high for your sister’s happiness, I’m sure.” Something flashed in his eyes, there one moment, gone the next.

Half a step was all it would take—less than that, even. It would be all too easy to reach up and pull his face down to hers. _He would let you,_ a mad voice spoke in her head. _He would kiss you back._ All those years of wondering, of pretending not to wonder.

She could know what it was like to kiss him, if she were brave enough.

But then he released her wrist and brought her hand up in his own. The brush of his bare fingers across her knuckles felt dangerous as he spoke, the words coming low, and she was glad he was looking down at their joined hands and not at her. “The next time you disagree with one of my decisions, I’d appreciate it if you came to me directly, instead of acting behind my back.” He did not sound angry, he didn’t even seem annoyed. He was disappointed, maybe, at her lack of trust. At her betrayal of his.

“And would you listen?” she asked.

His gaze moved up to hers, open and honest. “I always listen to you, Aurelia.”

This wasn’t a game anymore. Her hand was in his and she wanted him to kiss her, wanted to turn back the clock and do things differently. Wanted, with a breathless desperation, to have a different version of this conversation, one where she belonged in this house and he belonged to her. Where Bianca was her sister as much as her friend, and the blue of his eyes the only thing she longed for in the morning.

Gently, she removed her hand from his. Ignored the slide of his warm skin against hers, and took a measured step back, then another, until her back pressed against the doorjamb. “What of your treaty?” she asked, relieved when her voice didn’t break. “Is it lost?”

Lorenzo watched her carefully for a moment, then he mirrored her stance. Leaned against the opposite door jamb before lifting a shoulder in an unperturbed shrug. “Luca Soderini will still vote in our favor, so long as he takes the trading rights.”

“ _All_ of them?” She frowned. “Sly vultures, aren’t they?”

The corners of his mouth quirked up, but he still shot her a pointed look. “They were humiliated.” _In part, by you._

She waved off the words as if he’d said them aloud. “My heart bleeds for them, I’m sure they suffer. And the rest of the Priori?”

“We’re cutting it close.”

“I’m sorry.”

He huffed wryly at that and shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

Except she was. Sorry for the trouble she had caused, but not for the outcome, if it meant Bianca and Guglielmo would be happy. She admitted, “My feelings are mixed, it’s true,” and they both shared a grin at her audacity before she grew serious. “But I do hope you win your votes, Lorenzo.”

“It would be a win for Florence,” he corrected.

Her brother Niccolò could keep his stories of their drunken romps and literary tournaments. This was the Lorenzo of her memory—all raw hope and vision and lofty ambitions. “You’re still trying to change the world, I see.”

And it might have been imagined on her part, but there was something wistful in his expression, something she recognized as her own as he replied, “Some things should stay the same.”

* * *

Later, she felt like a fool for waiting outside the palace of the Signoria, but she told herself it was her last order of business. The final loose end. After this, she could go home and put the elopement incident behind her, resolved in her promise to never scheme again. She watched as the Priori members filed out, most looking satisfied. A few, like Jacopo, bore disgruntled expressions.

Finally, there came the golden head of Giuliano, followed close behind by his brother. They were smiling. She rushed forward to meet them.

“Did it pass?” she asked.

Lorenzo took her hands, relief and joy in equal measure upon his face as he said the words. “It passed.”


	3. Part 3: Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bianca and Guglielmo’s long-awaited wedding takes place, but not all is happiness when Lucrezia Donati appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief disclaimer: I’ve done my best to make sense of the history/show timeline discrepancies, but uhhhhh, it wasn't easy, folks! From here on out I’m going to be fiddling with the timing of certain events, so… y’know… my apologies. Thank you for reading!

_September, 1468_

It is late afternoon. The sun filters through the swaying trees, the leaves of which flash green, then gold overhead. Birds chirp ceaselessly, a call-and-response that never ends—that won’t, not until the sun has well and truly hidden. It is the end of summer. In a few days they will all return to Florence and the day-to-day bustle of business, but for now the Medici and the Valori enjoy the peace of the Tuscan countryside. Inside, Piero and Bartolomeo share wine and toast to the prospective union of their families, but all that dealing is ignored out here, in this clearing beyond a hill.

She first came here to hide, to stop the cheerfully expectant looks of her father and brother, for whom the match is as good as done. _Don’t you want to be a Medici?_ Fleeing was preferable to bursting into tears or throwing a silver dish at Niccolò’s head. She is grateful that their eldest brother, Filippo, is married now, and unable to add his voice to the chorus of well-meaning commands. Her father’s efforts have redoubled over this past year, and Aurelia feels the trap of arranged marriage drawing nearer, ready to spring. So she came here, into the fields, to run. To feel the open sky and convince herself the trap was not all, that there still remained a whole world.

Then Lorenzo came, joined her at the foot of this wide-branched, ancient beech. He didn’t speak at first, as if sensing her troubled frame of thought, merely sat in silence and lifted his face now and then to a passing breeze. But then he began, easily enough for someone whose words were his gift, to pull unwilling smiles from her, then laughter. Weeks of tension disappear as they jump from topic to topic for what feels like hours. Now, a natural lull has fallen between them, and they are once more content to take in the view of unbroken green.

After a while she hears his intake of breath, knows he is about to speak. “Tell me something true,” he says, turning his head to look at her. “Something you’ve never told anyone.”

Aurelia shakes her head with a laugh, incredulous. “And why would I do that?”

“Because I’ll tell you something in return.”

“Is that all? I thought a secret would be worth more.”

“Not among friends.” His earnestness charms, as does the way he twirls a blade of grass between his fingers.

“Fine,” she concedes. “But you go first.”

He thinks for a moment, mouth opening to speak before his face falls into an abashed expression, a self-conscious laugh huffing out as he discards the blade and brushes the dirt from his hands. “Never mind,” he says, “it was a terrible idea.”

She arches a brow at him. “Yes, it was, but you’ve committed and now you must see it through. Look, I will close my eyes—” she does just so, reclines against the trunk of the tree with her hands folded neatly over her stomach, “—and you can say it to the wind, if you please. I won’t look at you, I promise.” She feels his gaze on her as surely as she feels the sun behind the closed lids of her eyes. “Well?”

There is a pause at first, then a rustle of movement as he gathers his words. He begins, voice low and pensive: “I know it is my destiny to lead the family. My responsibility. A duty I owe to my father. But sometimes…” He trails off, a note of frustration creeping in, and she resists the urge to speak, to move, to do anything that would make him stop. “Sometimes I wish for my brother’s place. To have his life, and his choices.”

The confession done, she opens her eyes to find him leaning back on his elbows, squinting into the slanting sun. The wind ruffles his hair, a bit on the long side lately, and a lock of it falls onto his forehead. “No one’s life is their own, Lorenzo, not even Giuliano’s.”

He nods knowingly, as if to say, _I know that, but it still doesn’t make it fair._ “And yours?”

She snorts as she sits forward, wraps her arms around her knees. “Especially not mine.” Not when she is being groomed like a prize cow for market. Even on this leisure trip her father works hard to make her a wife, to marry her off to a Medici. The wrong Medici.

“You really won’t marry him?” Lorenzo asks, reading her thoughts. He is peering at her profile, but she knows better than to meet his gaze head on, lest he deduce a truth she isn’t ready to share. He presses on. “You’re of an age, you know. He is not ancient. And I’m told—though by poor, misguided souls, it’s true—that he is generally considered the more handsome brother.” She hazards a fraction of a turn, just to watch the teasing grin on his face. _As if anyone could ever rival him._ “You’d be an official part of the family.”

She rolls her eyes. “We would kill each other within the week.”

“Giuliano? He would never!”

“Fine, _I_ would kill him within the week. You’d find me over his cooling corpse holding a candlestick.”

Lorenzo stares, but his mouth quirks up. “That’s… grim.”

She shrugs. “It’s the truth.”

“Be that as it may…” Aurelia turns fully in an attempt to anticipate his next words, but his face is inscrutable. All she catches are brief flashes of emotion, there one second, gone the next. Doubt. Yearning. Exasperation. (With himself? With his destiny?) He shakes his head. “Better him than a stranger.”

“You will marry a stranger.” The sentence falls from her lips before she can call it back. The last thing she wants is to sound petulant, but the thought is a constant bitterness in her mouth and it feels good to let it out. Not to say the proper thing.

He huffs, humorless. “Not yet, thank God.”

“I wish I had that choice.”

He considers that for a while. Considers them, perhaps—their present course, their fated ends, too far away now to be seen, but diverging. Slowly. Inevitably. _Does he dread it as much as she?_ Just when she thinks the answer might be yes, he shoots her an expectant smile and says, “Well now, it’s your turn. Tell me something true.” He makes a show of lying back, hands clasped behind his head, elbows sticking out to the sides as if settling in for a nap. He even sighs a little, an untroubled sound, as he urges, “Go on, I’m all ears.”

The easy sight of him makes her smile, but she falters at his request. _Something true._ These days, she has a hard time with truth, with the way it sinks so easily beneath the weight of expectation. _I want what’s best for you_ , her father insists, without ever asking what she wants. And if he did, would she even be able to find the words? It is easier just to bite her tongue and say “thank you,” the perfect, dutiful daughter.

She turns back to Lorenzo. Gone is the lush doublet of city life; he is in his shirtsleeves like a simple shepherd, the sleeves rolled up, his forearms bare. With his eyes still closed, she allows herself to linger over the fall of his lashes. The straight slope of his nose. The pink of his placid mouth and the stubble on his jaw, which catches the afternoon light and leads the eye down the bare line of his neck, to the hollow place between his collarbones. All at once, she is overcome with a desire to reach out and touch him.

_Something you’ve never told anyone._

She leans over him, hesitant, one hand hovering over his skin. Her heart thumps in her chest—does she dare to do it? She has never touched him like this, deliberately, with desire in her fingertips. But his eyes are closed and he is right there, achingly beautiful and within reach. So she lowers her hand to the side of his face, traces the line of his cheekbone with the pad of her thumb, breath catching at the feel of him, sun-warm and real.

Immediately, Lorenzo’s eyes fly open. His hand shoots to her wrist and he looks at her, perplexed. Surprised, also, to find her lying so close.

Aurelia stiffens, mind racing for an apology. But then his grip softens. He is looking right at her, blue eyes on green. From the rise and fall of his chest she can tell that his own breath has quickened, and when he swallows, her eyes track the movement.

She longs to kiss him there, and in that shadowed space at the base of his throat.

He notes the direction of her eyes, the tentative hunger in them, and when he sits up, her hand falls to the curve of his shoulder, which is steady and strong. Lorenzo’s arms circle her waist as he draws her closer. The knowledge that she is half in his lap should make her cheeks blaze, but all shame is overridden when she takes in the scent of him, earthy and heady and wonderful. With one hand, she plunges her fingers into his sandy hair. The other clutches at his shirt, a fistful of unbleached linen in her hand.

“Lorenzo,” she sighs. He nuzzles at her neck, at the line of her jaw, pulls her into him until she’s half out of her mind with wanting him.

_Something true._

His mouth glides up, and she can feel his breath upon her lips when, from a distance, they both hear an echo of his name piercing the quiet calm. “Lorenzo!”

They break apart, startle-eyed. In an instant, she is off his lap and on her feet, a good six feet away. Giovanni comes bounding into view just as Aurelia lifts a shaky hand to her neck. From the corner of her eye, she sees Lorenzo rising to greet his brother, who exclaims in good spirits, “There you are! Mother’s been looking everywhere.” He pauses, looks between them with an eyebrow raised. “What are you two doing out here?”

Lorenzo throws his arm around his brother, seemingly unperturbed and says, “It’s the country, Giuliano. Some of us like to do more than sleep.”

Giuliano mirrors the move, throws his own arm around Lorenzo and grins. Innuendo drips scandalously from his words. “Oh, I do more than just sleep.”

Aurelia grimaces. “You are _disgusting_.”

“Hush, wife!” he declares, pulling her into his side and dropping a dramatic kiss onto the top of her head.

“Oh, you wish.”

The three fall into step as they make their way back to the villa. Giuliano continues to chatter. His arms, still slung around them, makes the going slow and stumbling, but no one shakes him off. For a moment, Lorenzo turns, looks at her, but when their eyes meet, she looks away.

* * *

_November, 1471_

Perhaps Valentina would know what someone ought to wear to an afternoon meal with the wife of the man one loved, but as discreet and diligent as her maid was it was better not to push the bounds and risk making her uncomfortable. Aurelia fiddled with the seed pearls at her wrist—the same kind that glinted along her collar on a bed of indigo blue—as she followed a servant’s lead, yet again, through the Medici courtyard.

The past few months had been a whirlwind of feasts and ceremonies in honor of Bianca and Guglielmo’s engagement. Understandably, they wanted to be man and wife as soon as possible, and everyone agreed that they’d waited long enough—and the sooner they were married, Lucrezia pointed out, the sooner the whiff of scandal would leave their families. On that score, Aurelia disagreed.

The names Pazzi and Medici were still being spoken of in the autumn, but the chatter wasn’t entirely centered on the formerly star-crossed lovers. It was now common knowledge in the city that Jacopo de’ Pazzi was furious with his two nephews, that their seeming alliance with Lorenzo had swept away the insular bond for which they were known. For her own part, Aurelia was glad. Guglielmo seemed happier than ever, the way he had as an untroubled boy before his parents died; and if Francesco still preferred to play his cards close to the chest, it was only his way, and at least he no longer scowled when she entered the room.

Even so, the words he spoke to her so knowingly in the summer, the ones she did her best to ignore, refused to leave her thoughts. _Do the Medici see you as their equal?_ If she weren’t trying to mend the last ten years of animosity, she’d be inclined to give Francesco a piece of her mind.

At the door to the dining room, the servant bowed and retreated. The table was set, covered in a fine red cloth and laden with flatware in expectation of her arrival—and hers alone, it seemed. The only other setting was for Clarice, who sat alone at the head of the table. “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming.” There was a tightness in her expression that made Aurelia falter at the threshold, feeling like she’d walked into an ambush while pitifully unprepared.

She had expected Lucrezia or Bianca for company, and if she remembered correctly—and she was sure she did—Clarice had used the word “us” in her missive. So unless she’d taken up use of the royal “we,” Clarice Orsini had willingly engaged in misdirection—to what end?

Aurelia bowed and forced her lips to smile. “Of course. Thank you for the invitation.”

Clarice gestured to the place on her right, then said, “Please, sit. I am afraid Lucrezia is unable to join us today. With the wedding in two days, there is still so much to do.”

“I understand.” Except she didn’t. She and Clarice had never had reason to speak; they exchanged pleasantries when necessary, of course, but no further—and quite frankly, Aurelia preferred it that way. Out of sight, out of mind. On good days, she could forget Clarice Orsini had ever left Rome.

Today was not one of those days.

And when could she expect the inevitable blow, the great revelation of Clarice’s plan? She was glad when the Malvasia was poured, even breathed easy through the salad course, because surely dramatic timing called for something more exciting than a plate of artichokes and olives. But then the main course came around, and Clarice seemed almost as uncomfortable as Aurelia felt—and not just because the cook had been overzealous in spicing the verjuice.

“Am I correct in assuming you’ve lived your whole life in Florence?” It was the latest in a series of stilted, awkward questions. _Is your family well? How fares your son? Do you think the weather will hold until the wedding?_

“I have,” Aurelia replied, the taste of cinnamon lying thick in her throat. “With the exception of the two years I spent in Genoa.”

“It must be nice to come home. To have the liberty to do so.” A shadow crossed the other woman’s face. A touch of resentment—for whom? Surely, not for her. Ever since the vote, she’d done her best to steer clear of Lorenzo, to focus on helping Bianca with her wedding preparations. The sense of his closeness, the look in his eye as he’d spoken to her, was still too sharp in her mind. She could barely look at him without thinking of the way he’d clasped her hands in front of the Palazzo della Signoria. The way he seemed to invite her to share in his victories, as though she had a right to do so.

And then there were Francesco’s words, ever whispering through her head, reminding her of what could have been.

No, if Clarice was uneasy, it had nothing to do with her. She’d been the picture of propriety for months.

“You do not live in your father’s house.” Aurelia looked up at the curious statement, found Clarice turning away, abashed. “I’m sorry, you needn’t answer. It is none of my business.” But something about the self-reproachful turn of her mouth made Aurelia want to. Curious, that. Her living situation was a subject of some gossip, but no one had ever had the guilelessness to ask about it outright. The fact that Clarice even cared that it wasn’t her business was strangely compelling.

“I run my son’s household,” she explained, after a pause. “My husband had no other heirs. There are relatives in France—a cousin, I think—but he was not taken with the idea of returning. On paper, the business interests are handled by my father and brothers until my son comes of age, but I am learning the trade in order to teach him when the time comes. As for where I live… trust me, it is for the best that we have our own roofs.”

“Still, it is an unusual arrangement.”

“My eldest brother would agree with you.” Clarice was looking at her with something that made her thoroughly uncomfortable, something like admiration.

“Filippo? He is the one married to Alessandra Salviati.” Aurelia nodded assent. “And your other brother—”

“Niccolò.”

“He is a friend of Lorenzo’s.”

Aurelia couldn’t help a wry turn. “So he says.”

For a good minute, Clarice was silent. “Goodness, you really have known each other all your lives.” A touch of discomfort marred her features again, as if she were bracing herself for an unpleasant task. She opened her mouth, closed it while dessert was brought in and their glasses refilled.

Somehow, Aurelia knew this was the moment—the one she’d been dreading since her arrival. She shot a longing glance at the dish of elderflower _frittelle_ placed between them, the rising steam of freshly fried dough dusted in white sugar mingling with the scent of saffron and butter. Would she even be able to enjoy them after Clarice was through with her? She waited until the servants had gone, then said, without overture, “You are close to Lorenzo.”

A tug at her wrist. A sweep of warm skin at the back of her hand. A step away from a kiss. _I always listen to you, Aurelia._

She cleared her throat, grateful for the fullness of her wine glass, which she reached for as she replied, “The Medici are like family.”

“And what of Lucrezia Ardinghelli? How well do you know her?”

Aurelia froze, barely avoided choking on a mouthful of wine. “Madonna Clarice…”

“If you are as close to Lorenzo as you claim, then you must know—”

A nervous strain pulled at her throat, rendering her voice high and brittle. _This cannot be happening._ “I have known Lorenzo all my life, it is true, but his secrets…”

“It is not entirely secret, though, is it? All of Florence knows, yet no one will give me a straight answer. To protect their own feelings, I suspect. Certainly not my own.” So that was the resentment. The reason behind her wounded pride, the touch of anger in her eyes. The hurt. “Does he love her?”

“I must reiterate, Madonna—”

“Yes, you said you do not speak of such things. But your opinion?”

“I could not say.”

Clarice nodded slowly. Her astute gaze bore into Aurelia’s until she felt like a shallow pool, clear to the bottom, fully exposed. “Could not,” she asked, “or won’t?”

Something else she could not say.

Aurelia had always known of Lorenzo’s affair with Lucrezia, but it was—for obvious reasons—not something she enjoyed pondering. Did he love her? There were verses to prove that he had, at least in his younger years. But Lorenzo was a very different man now—she had noticed it at the wedding feast, and during the endless reel of betrothal ceremonies that came after. He appeared singularly focused in his goal to change Florence, to broker deals and sponsor artists, to reshape the political landscape into his own dreamed-of image. And, of course, there was the running of the bank. So many things occupied his mind these days. He still saw Lucrezia—that much the gossip-mongers knew for certain—but lately he did not seem a man in love. At least not with anyone but Florence.

A warm glance, a longing look. _I always listen to you, Aurelia._

_Stop it._

Clarice’s solemn voice snapped her out of that dead-end road. The words she used were well-practiced, as though she had repeated them to herself a thousand times, a litany against her own loneliness. “I know I am an outsider,” she said slowly. “I know he does not love me—why would he, when we are still strangers to one another?” And then one of her hands moved from the tabletop to her belly, distilling the room to that one cloth-covered point. “But I gave up a life for which I felt called because I was convinced I could do some good in this world as his wife. And I _will_ do it. What I refuse to do is bring a child of mine into a house full of secrets and mistrust.”

Realization crashed into Aurelia like a wave.

Clarice was with child.

 _I gave up a life for which I felt called…_ Aurelia had never entertained the notion of holy orders—didn’t know what it was to feel the voice of God—but she knew what it felt like to have her dreams snatched, her choices stripped. Oh the bride had to consent to be married, all right, but did it even count, when everyone knew they were expected to comply? To be good was to be obedient, after all.

If Clarice Orsini had her way, she would probably be tending to the sick and needy right now. Spending her days in prayer, her nights in song. Or, if not, happily wedded to a man who was more than a stranger. Someone who had married her for love.

She had known a woman like Clarice once—one equally alone, condemned by the promise of a strange house for company, and a man who saw her only as a prize. She had failed that friend when it mattered. She couldn’t have Clarice on her conscience, too—no matter who her husband was.

She sighed. “Lucrezia has been a part of his life for many years. I imagine he feels a loyalty towards her. But you are his wife, and if you are unhappy you must tell him so. Be plain; you already know how to be brave. And do not let him misdirect you—Lorenzo’s eloquence can be a weapon in hand when he feels cornered. Remind him that this is your home now, your family. You… you are to be the mother of his child. He has to listen to you.”

Clarice heard her with an intent focus, her shoulders gradually dropping, the tension leaving the muscles of her eyes, the area around her mouth. Aurelia heard her exhalation, a long letting-out of breath. And then she smiled. Not a joyful lift, but a tentative one. Relieved. Encouraged. An after-Mass kind of calm. Her hand still cradled protectively around her stomach as she said, “Thank you, Madonna.”

“Aurelia.” The name was out of her mouth before she could stop it, a renegade creature running on a questionable impulse. “You may call me Aurelia.” And all the while, thinking, _I may live to regret that._

* * *

So incandescent was Bianca’s joy at being married to Guglielmo that very few at her wedding could contest the claim of her being the most beautiful bride in Christendom. No expense was spared in celebrating the occasion, and Lucrezia de’ Medici, ever the able diplomat, had invited the most trusted of the family’s allies, as well as an assortment of the city’s most prominent figures.

It was, after all, more than a marriage of two people—it was the Pazzi and the Medici, united at last.

For her part, Aurelia was glad to have witnessed the triumph of all her friend’s dreams. After the vows, she took a teary-eyed Bianca into a rib-squeezing hug and wished her well.

“If I am happy, it is all because of you,” she said.

Aurelia blushed. “In spite of me, you mean.” She had not forgotten the mortifying errands she’d had to run, or her promise to be good and stay out of trouble.

Bianca shook her head and laughed, a high, trilling sound shot with love and happiness as if with golden thread. “No!” she exclaimed as she pulled her in for another embrace. “You always believed in us.”

“Of course I did! I’ve two working eyes and a brain in my head. You were made for each other. And now all of Florence knows it, too.”

After the marriage, the party moved from the chapel to a long gallery prepared for the occasion, and Aurelia was escorted in by Niccolò, who couldn’t help but crack a few jokes at his widowed sister’s expense.

“Martelli’s been looking at you all evening.”

“Alfonso Martelli is fifteen. He’d look at anything in a dress.”

“What about Bernardo Rucellai? He’s rich.”

“ _I_ am rich.”

He clicked his tongue. “A lady should never say so. Besides, it is Father who is rich. He could decide tomorrow to close up your palace and call you back home.”

At that, she came to a halt, pulling him back by the crook of the arm she still held in her grip. “Did he say that?” she demanded, wide-eyed. “Did Filippo? I know it wasn’t you, or so help me God—”

“So help _me_ ,” he exclaimed, “from hysterical women! I only meant it in jest—there’s no need to give me that Great-Aunt Caterina look.”

The portrait of a young Caterina Valori hung in their family home, a feature so constant that Aurelia and her brothers grew up feeling as if they knew her, despite the fact that she had died before Aurelia was born. She had always coveted the painting, done by the friar-artist Filippo Lippi and gifted to her great-aunt by Cosimo de’ Medici himself. What her father and brothers always remarked upon as imperiousness in the brown-eyed gaze was something altogether different to her. A keen intelligence. An implacable will. Niccolò’s barb was as good as a compliment, then.

She shot her brother a withering look. “I see your sense of humor has not improved in the time I’ve been gone.”

He grinned, grey eyes crinkling at the corners, before leaning in quite aggressively and landing a loud kiss on her check. Aurelia squealed in protest and shoved him away. “Get off, you beast!” she exclaimed, but her lips curved into a smile, one that grew all the wider when she spotted a messy head of black curls up ahead. She raised her voice, loud enough for him to hear. “Oh, bless the saints, there he is! The only man of sense left in Florence—Sandro Botticelli!”

The painter turned, face breaking out into a similar smile. “Madonna Valori! A sight for sore eyes. You’ve been very hard to find these days.”

“ _I?_ You are mistaken, Sandro. I’ve been meaning to commission a painting from you since I returned. In vain, might I add. I hear you’ve been hard at work—no time for old friends.”

His right hand flew to his chest, over his heart, at her teasing. “For you, Madonna, I would spare—” he paused, thinking—"one glorious hour.“

” _Only one?_ “

"And a half.”

Niccolò shook his head at them in mock disapproval. “I see my presence here is redundant.”

“Yes, it is. Niccolò, go away. Find a wife, if you’re so obsessed with marriage.” He yanked at her hair before turning away, making for one of the refreshment tables along the perimeter so that all she could do was shoot a useless glare at his retreating back. She returned her attention to the amused Sandro, who suggested they take a turn about the crowded room. As they walked, Aurelia said, “I insist you make good on one of those hours, Sandro. You should see the state of my house—all blank walls…”

“Like a canvas.”

“Like blank walls,” she insisted. “It is only canvas if you paint for me.”

“Hm.” He looked at her appraisingly, eyes narrowed in thought. “I might just have the perfect subject for you.”

“Excellent!”

“But it will have to wait, at least until I’m done with Vespucci.”

Aurelia’s smile tightened at that. “Yes, I heard you were painting her.”

“And Giuliano.”

She remembered the way they had looked at each other at Lorenzo’s wedding feast, right under Marco’s nose. “Is that wise?” she asked.

Sandro chuckled, and she knew he had mistaken her meaning. “He is an abysmal model, it’s true.—Oh! Sorry about that, excuse me.” He came to a sudden halt, having crashed into a beautiful woman in a purple gown, rubies glittering at her neck. Aurelia’s eyes widened at the sight of her.

Lucrezia Donati.

Lucrezia Donati at Bianca’s wedding, within sight of Clarice.

She smiled placidly at them, a woman at ease—and why shouldn’t she be? She was one of the belles of the city, wealthy, married to an important man, bedfellows with another. “Do not fret, Sandro. There are certainly quite a lot of people celebrating the newlyweds. You are hardly the first to jostle, only the first to apologize.”

 _Sandro._ Aurelia would have scowled if it weren’t blatantly impolite. Who did the woman think she was, calling him Sandro? But her traitorous painter friend didn’t seem to mind, because he inclined his head and returned the smile.

Just when she hoped Lucrezia might step around and pass them by, she did quite the opposite. She turned to Aurelia, head tilted in curiosity, and said, “Madonna Affini, how nice to see you back in Florence.”

Inwardly, Aurelia seethed. Outwardly, she displayed her most courteous smile, the one she sharpened to perfection during her time as a stranger in Genoa, when the leading ladies of the city had latched onto her gaffes like leeches. “Thank you, Madonna Ardinghelli. Tell me, how is your husband?”

Lucrezia didn’t miss a step. She might as well have asked about the weather, for all the reaction she managed to get. “He is away on business, but in good health. How kind of you to ask.”

“Of course.”

Sandro, finally catching on to the awkwardness of the situation, flashed Lucrezia another gallant smile and said, “If you’ll excuse us, Madonna… Enjoy the rest of your evening,” all while pulling Aurelia by the elbow. “Is the art of subtlety not practiced in Genoa, then?” he asked once they were out of earshot. They allowed the crowd to sweep them into a far corner, tucked away next to a window where they could observe the throng at their leisure.

Aurelia snatched a goblet of wine from a passing servant. Let the cool, spiced contents dissipate some of the searing anger that had settled into her lungs at the sight of Lorenzo’s mistress.

Lucrezia Donati was many things—stupid was not one of them. She had seen a young man with potential and claimed him for her own. As a story, it was hardly unique, and the objective part of Aurelia’s brain could not fault the other woman for taking her comforts where she could. After all, Messer Ardinghelli was famous for neglecting his stunning, raven-haired wife.

But Lorenzo himself was married now. How could she ever think their relationship would continue in the same way?

_Does he love her?_

Perhaps the better question was whether Lucrezia loved him. What would she do, to keep Lorenzo de’ Medici at her side?

She recalled Clarice’s hurt from two days ago. Aurelia had seen it, clear as day, in her greenish-brown eyes. How could Lorenzo be so willingly blind?

“Oh the Genoese do subtlety just fine, my friend,” she said to Sandro. “I don’t recall anyone inviting their mistress to their sister’s wedding.”

Sandro ran a hand through his curly hair, let out a long sigh. “Please don’t do anything rash.”

“Me? What would I do?” But she was already reaching the bottom of her wineglass and seeking out Lorenzo on the other side of the room.

He tracked her sightline. “Something like that.”

“Sandro, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Aurelia… _Aurelia!_ ” But his whispered warnings fell on deaf ears. When she reached Lorenzo, he had just finished speaking to Andrea Foscari, which was lucky, because it meant she could pull him out into the hallway without attracting unwanted attention.

Sandro was right—she was being rash. Fueled by hastily imbibed wine, offense on behalf of Clarice, and—more than that—years of silent resentment. Was it hypocritical on her part? Outrageously, but no amount of logic could stop the sharpness on her tongue when she rounded on Lorenzo and asked, “What are you doing?”

“What am _I_ doing?” he asked, eyebrows raised in amazement. “What are you doing?”

“You should not have invited Lucrezia Ardinghelli.”

His eyes went wide, a touch of irritation showing around his mouth. “Is that what this is about?” He shook his head reproachfully. At her. It made her want to scream. “You’ve never liked her.”

“I’ve never liked that she is _married_ — and so are you, or need I remind you! You have never been cruel, Lorenzo, which is why, for the life of me, I cannot understand why you insist on humiliating your wife.”

“I do not—”

“All of Florence knows about you and Lucrezia!” she hissed at him. “At some point, denial becomes futile. And insulting. And _beneath you!_ ”

Lorenzo’s face darkened. His blue eyes took a moment to survey the hallway before yanking her into one of the side rooms. An ill-used study, full of old books and forgotten knickknacks, already aglow with candles—no doubt for the benefit of the guests, who were known to use occasions such as this to discuss business of various sorts. Lorenzo released her and shut the door before rounding on her. “My marriage is none of your concern.”

“Right,” she scoffed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Because I am only your friend when I agree with you.”

“If I wanted your counsel, I would ask for it. Lucrezia is here as my guest. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to.” He grasped the doorknob to leave. To leave her there, Lucrezia winning yet again.

“How convenient,” she ground out. She watched him pause. Saw the line of his shoulders stiffen beneath his blue doublet. For a second, she thought he might turn around again, say something—anything—that would lessen the horrid, churning feeling of having fought with him. Of having done so for reasons she didn’t dare name, under the shameful cover of defending Clarice’s honor.

But he didn’t turn. He opened the door, walked out, and left.

* * *

It was hard to recover her humor after that. She made her excuses to Bianca and her mother, said something about Gianpaolo with just enough motherly concern that they discharged her with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks.

Niccolò loved very few things as much as a party, so she decided to leave him to his own enjoyment, which, at the time of her leaving, included yet another glass of wine and the company of a pretty, blushing blonde. Lucky him—her brother had always seized his desires without hesitation, be they knowledge or women, or a lark about the country, responsibility be damned. Brooding was not in his nature, neither was cynicism. If he had desired someone from youth, he would have never let them get away.

 _Regret is your own choice_ , he told her once. Such was the philosophy of a self-determining young man of the elite.

She left the festivities behind, fetched her woolen green cloak from one of the Medici servants. The day had been fine, but now that night had fallen she felt a cold wind rising, even indoors, signaling the approach of winter. Aurelia fastened the clasps of her cloak as she traversed the empty courtyard, pulled the hood over her head after calling for her carriage. Outside, a couple of guards stood sentry under the light of a torch, their breath making clouds in the air. She ignored them as she waited, rubbing her gloved hands together, and finally allowed herself to sigh. A weary sound, mingled with the distant call of a night bird.

“Not in a celebratory mood, then?”

Aurelia jumped at the voice, shadows throwing off her sense of direction. Francesco stepped into the glow of firelight, face as intent as always.

Whatever Niccolò was, Francesco de’ Pazzi was ever his opposite. There was a quiet pensiveness to him, one he shared with Lorenzo, actually, but without the approachable charm. Nevertheless, his intelligence was just as alluring, if not simultaneously unsettling.

She ignored his remark. “What about you, then? Brother of the groom.”

“I only stepped out for a moment.”

“To moon over Novella Foscari?” She indulged in his answering scowl. “It’s nice to know you’re human, actually. Not immune to a pair of pretty blue eyes.”

He pursed his lips, but having seen his true face of anger once before, she knew he hadn’t truly taken offense.

Where friendship with Guglielmo had been easy—with the grateful way he took her into his arms and greeted her, one would think she’d saved him and Bianca from a blazing fire—Francesco was an entirely different matter. He was wary of her somehow, more reserved, and it was the same way with the Medici. As if he still felt some shame for what had transpired between him and his uncle, and didn’t want the Medici to think he belonged to them just because his brother had married into their family.

“Are you well, Francesco?” she asked, watching as the surly expression turned into a hint of surprise at her concern. Other than that, his gaze gave away nothing.

He raised then dropped his shoulders, the barest of shrugs. “Guglielmo is happy.”

“And?”

“I am happy if he is happy.”

“If only it were that simple.”

He was quiet then. Raised his head to look at the rooftops of the nearby palaces. The sound of music and easy laughter spilled from above onto the quiet street, a stark contrast to the darkness and silence of the night. “There are worse things than living in service to another. Priests do it all the time. Personally, I’d rather bet on my brother.” He let the blasphemy land, unconcerned.

Aurelia joined him in looking out at the night, considering his words. Then, hesitantly, she asked, “What if you don’t have a choice? What if life chooses your masters?”

He turned his head. She waited with bated breath for his answer, afraid that if she showed too keen of an interest he would spook and change the subject, or else leave her alone in the cold. “Aurelia Valori, you are far too clever to fall for that one.”

Rattling carriage wheels punctuated the end of his statement. He opened the wooden door, helped her in with a gloveless hand. “Cousin,” he said, light spilling onto the top of his dark head. He rapped on the carriage twice, ordering the driver along and sending her off into the night.

* * *

The decision gave her grief for days. What, exactly, had she accomplished since returning to Florence? Lorenzo was married, a father-to-be, and no amount of lamenting or wishing otherwise would change that. To think—she had been so angry at Lucrezia Donati, so outraged by her behavior, but how different was Aurelia, really? Clinging to a man who’d made vows to another, a man who could offer her nothing but noncommittal touches in empty doorways when no one was looking. A man who claimed to listen to her, but failed to do so when it suited him. _Aurelia Valori, you are far too clever to fall for that one._

She would stop waiting around like Penelope for Odysseus. She could long for him all she wanted, but she had her own life to live, and from now on she would follow Francesco’s lead—she would take charge of her life, put her own affairs in order and let Lorenzo deal with his. God knew he had a thousand things on his mind, all more important to him than her.

Hence, this walk. And this door. Yet another decision made on the heels of spite, but this one was necessary, and it had been delayed long enough.

Except the lady of the house was not in, or so the aging maid said. Aurelia declined the offer to leave a message. It was one thing to show up announced; quite another to make a fool of herself and risk being turned away next time. _It’s fine_ , she told herself as the door closed on its hinges. _It was a bad idea anyway_. And she’d never been good at apologies. Aurelia turned towards the street. To home, then.

The chill that had set in the night of Bianca’s wedding seemed here to stay. The sky was a slate slab overhead, impenetrable, even by the high noon sun. Aurelia grasped at the collar of her cloak, pulling it closer to her neck as she wondered, with a sinking feeling, whether she’d ever have the courage to try this errand again.

“What are you doing here?” The question froze her, mid-step. A high ringing sounded in her ears like the reverberations of a church bell, pulsing down her body, mingling with the racing beat of her pulse.

All her life, Aurelia had wronged very few people, but this woman presided over them all.

She swallowed, difficult work with her mouth so dry, and turned to face the woman she had spent years trying to forget—and there she was, lovely as ever, a furrow marring her otherwise smooth forehead.

Aurelia steeled herself and said, “Hello, Simonetta.”


	4. Part 4: Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years and a joust.

_1475_

If Florence was restless that summer, it had little to do with the anger of the Pope or the vague possibility of war. The tournament was all, and Aurelia knew it must be that way by design—so very few things happened in the city anymore without the guiding hand of the Medici.

But politics were the furthest thing from little Paolo’s mind. For him, the days were shiny and new and full of the siren song of possibility. Poliziano despaired of his absent-minded pupil. Eventually, he took pity and deferred their lessons until after the tournament, knowing the boy would rather stare out the window at the flapping banners than learn the tenets of government.

Aurelia, for her part, found herself seeing the city through her son’s eager eyes. Even a cynic like her could agree to the compelling oddity of a lady and a laundress admiring the same orange cart. The charm of the kind, old metalworker who proudly showed them his treasures—everything from dainty thimbles to filigreed crosses hung on fine silver chains.

And then there was Giuliano’s great secret.

His older brother having abstained from the lists, he was determined to come out the undeniable victor and had persuaded Sandro to paint his standard to mark the occasion. He refused to speak on its design, and nothing Aurelia or Simonetta did would make his lips loosen. “You’ll just have to wait and see,” he said, characteristic smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth.

So it was with considerable intrigue that the day arrived. They set off early for the city center, but Paolo’s need to stop at every attraction slowed their progress, and Aurelia didn’t have the heart to hurry him along.

His whim served as their guide. They watched the juggler, the fiddler, the fire-eater, and the mime—but she drew the line at the bawdy puppet show. He’d learn such things soon enough with a scoundrel like Giuliano for an influence; there was no need to accelerate matters.

By the time they made it to the Signoria clocktower, Aurelia was certain of their lateness. But there was no one waiting at the landmark, only men and women dressed in their own versions of finery and making their way to the joust.

It was an hour ‘til noon. The sun blazed overhead, making her skin prickle.

After ten minutes, Paolo began to grow antsy. He tugged at her hand and flashed his best angelic face, the resemblance so uncanny that Aurelia knew exactly whom to blame for his knowing such a trick. “Mother, can we go now?”

“No, we cannot.”

He looked longingly to the other side of the square, where a temporary stable had been constructed for a couple of beautiful mares. Their reddish-brown coats brushed until they gleamed. “May I see the horses, then?” he asked.

“No, not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because right now we are _waiting_.” He frowned, green eyes furrowed in disappointment, and let out a long, precocious sigh. It was with considerable relief that Aurelia noticed the blonde, silk-clad figure crossing towards them. “Oh, look—there she is!”

The woman hurried the last few steps, features full of apology. “I am so sorry, did I keep you?”

Aurelia opened her mouth to say it was no trouble, but Paolo rushed in with a breathless “We were going to see the horses, Madonna Simonetta!” He turned sheepish when he noticed his mother’s reproachful glance, but it didn’t stop him from taking Simonetta’s hand and leading the way to the stables.

Simonetta played along, smiling every time her son pointed at the animals—themselves bearing up under the scrutiny of half-a-dozen squealing children with impeccable patience—but there was a weary look to her. A tightness around the mouth that had been absent for months. And her eyes were more guarded than usual.

“Is everything all right?” Aurelia asked, gently taking her elbow in hand.

“I’m fine.” An automatic response, unconvincing to both. Then, “Marco wanted me to ride in with him.”

"Ah.” Messer Vespucci's attentions had been more demanding of late, and Simonetta, fearing that it belied a latent suspicion, had recently paused her long-standing affair with Giulian because of it. Frankly, if Marco was suspicious, Aurelia was surprised it had taken this long. "How did you get out of it?"

"I promised to sit with him at the joust. And he insisted that I bring Fiammetta."

The women turned as one to cast a surreptitious stare at the black-clad maid, her eyes dark and watchful.

There was no doubt in their minds that she was there to spy.

Aurelia took in the worry lines on her friend’s face. A stranger wouldn’t notice anything but her beauty. The rosy cheeks and golden hair. Eyes like blue stained glass, reflecting summer light and playing off the sky-hued color of her gown, the finest her husband’s money could buy. She was a lady of the highest order, the kind anyone would look at and dismiss as not having a care in the world. But Aurelia knew better. Had known, from that November day, four years ago now, that the life she led was an unshakable weight threatening to drown her.

_"Hello, Simonetta."_

_Silence hung between them for one terrible, seemingly eternal spell. For all her practice, Aurelia had never been as skilled at keeping her thoughts from her face. Simonetta's betrayed no emotion except for a wary curiosity, one that could mean any number of things._

_After a while, she jerked her head towards the door. "Well, are you just going to stand there?" Bewildered, Aurelia watched her push it open without a backward glance. When she realized she had been offered an invitation, she hurried in, the door closing audibly at her back._

_The narrow, stone courtyard they entered spread out before them like a tunnel. They took a right turn into the public wing, and the deeper they went, the more the palace halls revealed of their stale opulence. Large, elaborate pieces chosen seemingly at random—porcelain vases, mahogany chests, paintings by a few of the old masters—all valuable, but without a unifying taste. The only thing they had in common was extravagance and gilt._

_No wonder Sandro Botticelli, with his chasing after God and life and pure inspiration, once called it a place where beautiful things went to live out their days and die._

_A well-trained contingent of servants followed after them like shadows, tending to their every need. Taking their cloaks, escorting them to the receiving room, opening doors, closing them, calling for refreshments…_

_Eyes after eyes after eyes._

_Perhaps some women could learn to thrive under such ministrations, never having to voice a desire before it was met, but not Simonetta. At least, not the Simonetta she’d known, who was vibrant and spirited and skeptical, yes, but also free._

_Aurelia stopped herself._

_What right did she have to wonder, uninvited, at the intimacies of Madonna Vespucci's thoughts? For all she knew, Simonetta had changed, and what business was it of hers if she had? She was here to take responsibility for an old wrong, that was all._

_Mea culpa, mea culpa—you'll never not be married to this ostentatious bore—but mea maxima culpa._

_Oh, God, had she made a mistake in coming?_

_Simonetta faced her once they were alone in the gallery. Outside, the wind picked up; she could hear it through the windows. Through the walls. "I'm surprised you're here, quite frankly. After the Medici feast, I thought this was the way of things… You, returned to your home—and the time spent in mine forgotten."_

_There was something about the flatness of her tone that conveyed her injury. It lodged a sinking guilt into the heart of her. "You thought I wanted to forget you?" The notion was unthinkable, but not to Simonetta, apparently._

_That same flat tone. "You never did write."_

_Aurelia looked out the window, at the dark clouds rolling in. She took a breath, gathering her courage, and admitted: "I was ashamed."_

_Simonetta frowned. "What would you possibly have to be ashamed about?"_

_"The night before you left…" Balmy and dark. A stone at her window, her cloaked friend below._ Help me.

_"You thought I was angry because I didn't get to flee to the convent?” The directness made Aurelia wince, but her surprise at what Simonetta said next made her discomfort short-lived. “You were right not to help me. It was a childish scheme, and it would have been worse in the long run. Marrying Marco saved my family from ruin."_

_"Yes, but at your expense.” What had she said?_ I cannot marry him. I cannot go—if I do, it will be the end of me. _And she’d seemed so anguished, so afraid. A bird aware of the trap and the cage. Of a life without sky._

_"It's what we do.” Her husband’s pearls glinted at her throat as she shrugged. A plain gesture—not indifferent, just honest. “I have no illusions about my situation. If it hadn’t been Marco, it would have been someone else. And I don't blame you. You did the same thing: left everyone you loved, did as you were bid.” She paused, head at a curious tilt. “And yet you are here now. Free. Is it everything you wanted?” Her blue eyes shone with intelligence. No wonder men spoke of her with such awe. And what a pity they could think of nothing else to do but ground her._

_And because she was here now, because she’d spent the last few days feeling on the cusp of change, and because it was Simonetta who asked—her more-than-friend, her kindred, her sister and port in the storm—she felt she could not lie. "No,” she admitted, and saying it aloud felt a little like freedom. “It isn't."_

Everything changed after that. With their misunderstandings out of the way, she and Simonetta became a pair again, as close as they'd been in Genoa, if not closer still. And when her affair with Giuliano began shortly thereafter, their duo expanded to include him and Sandro, for whom Simonetta continued to be a paragon of divine beauty.

Their friendship made Florence a home again. Instead of walking the halls of the Affini palace and feeling the disapproving eyes of generations upon her, she now recalled the sound of admittedly half-drunken laughter one evening, when Sandro took it upon himself to critique the décor, Giuliano at his heels miming the imagined voice of an imperious-looking matron—a great-great-grandmother of her husband's whose portrait they later pulled off the wall and threw into the cellar.

But lately, those once-frequent dinners at Palazzo d’Affini had dwindled. Sandro had had a falling out with Vespucci—who suspected the painter of wanting to seduce his wife—and it had made him wary. He no longer allowed Giuliano and Simonetta to meet at his workshop, and Simonetta, in turn, had said it wasn’t safe to meet at all until Marco’s suspicions had cooled.

It was clear from her bearing that they hadn’t.

At the piazza, they went in opposite directions: Simonetta to join her waiting husband, Aurelia to visit Giuliano in the jousters' pavilion. Before they parted, she extracted a length of green ribbon from her pocket and pressed it wordlessly into Aurelia's hand, trying not to draw the attention of the nefarious young gargoyle who hovered a short distance away.

“Good luck,” Aurelia told her.

“Tell him the same.”

The pavilion was a dizzying hive of activity. Half-armored men yelled for their flustered squires, who ran in and out of the colorful tents fetching gloves and helmets, harnessing horses, and guarding the weapons of the joust.

Paolo took it all in with a keen interest, and Aurelia let him wander on his own so long as he promised to stay within sight. His little legs carried him forward as he weaved around and in between the men who stepped into his path, finally giving a triumphant shout when he spotted the familiar blond head among the chaos.

Giuliano turned immediately, his face breaking into a big smile as he scooped Paolo into his arms and lifted him into the air before setting him back on his feet and giving his chestnut hair an indelicate ruffle.

Aurelia leaned against a support beam as she watched. "You know," she said, pretending to smooth the yellow fabric of her dress, "there has to be something ridiculous about two men hitting each other with lances from atop their horses in the middle of a square for their own amusement."

Giuliano groaned at her as he fiddled with the fastening of a vambrace. The plate was polished to a sheen and Paolo looked upon it with open envy. Nothing could be more heroic to a six-year-old boy than his adoptive godfather in full jousting armor—and said godfather, being Giuliano de' Medici, preened under the attention like an addle-brained peacock.

He bent as low as the clunky plating would allow, bare pointer stretched out in front of her son’s face like a lecturing tutor. "Jousting is a noble sport, Paolo. Tell your mother _she's_ being ridiculous."

"He will do no such thing!" Her affronted gasp made him grin. He seemed in better spirits today, and she would wager that most of his swagger came from the rare opportunity he had of showing off in front of Simonetta.

He amended: "You’re right, he won't. Because your mother, young man, is a very smart woman, even if her taste in men leaves much to be desired."

Thankfully, her son missed the nuances of such a comment.

"Godfather, will you teach me to joust one day?"

Giuliano rose to his feet to slip on a pair of gauntlets. "I’ll do you one better—when I’m through with you, you’ll be the best horseman _and_ the best swordsman in all Florence. It’s high time you started learning something other than books."

Paolo looked thoroughly confused. "Messer Poliziano says knowledge is the lifeblood of the civilized republic."

At the parroted refrain, Giuliano’s face turned sour. "Messer Poliziano,” he said, “hasn't spoken to a girl since the last century."

"Giuliano! Don't listen to your idiot godfather, Paolo. Contrary to what he'd have you believe, he's actually read many of those books he pretends to malign. And I’ll have you know—” This last bit to the metal-plated idiot. “—that Poliziano corresponds with some of the finest minds in Europe."

"Oh, but does he _correspond_?"

Aurelia shot him a reproving look, one usually reserved for her six-year-old son. "I hope one of those blows land—and hard."

His right arm shot to his heart, a gesture so exaggerated it made Paolo giggle. "My lady, your words wound more than a lance ever could."

"Well here's something to salve your injuries." She extracted the bit of green cloth from Simonetta, unfurling it before his eyes before taking his arm and tying the ribbon to the crook of his elbow. It was such a small thing. Many of the other contestants wore similar favors—from wives and mistresses, lovers, mothers, or sisters—but Giuliano stared at it like it was made of gold. When she was done, he pressed an armored hand to the knot, a pensive look on his face that betrayed deeper feeling than he usually liked to display.

He’d been more melancholy since Simonetta’s plea for distance, prone to over-drinking and maudlin—even angry—fits. But Aurelia suspected his pain went even beyond his lover, to the strained relationship he now had with Lorenzo.

_"Yet another feather in his cap." The bitter note surprised her, especially at so cheerful a gathering as a wedding, held at Palazzo Medici at Lorenzo’s own invitation._

_To think—both Pazzi brothers had done what very few in the nobility ever managed to do. They'd married for love. And that, in her book, was always a cause for celebration. It was comforting to know that soon there would be a new generation of Florentines with no memory of ancient feuds, their parents’ enmity long forgotten._

_Well—mostly forgotten._

_As Giuliano drank deep from his cup, Aurelia followed his sightline to the head of the table, where his brother clapped Francesco on the shoulder in a fond, brotherly gesture. She couldn’t tell for whom Giuliano had meant the words, and though she could have asked, she never liked indulging his self-pity, especially when he was into his cups._

_"Have you changed your mind about refusing the lady?" she teased, trying to diffuse his mood with a joke._

_The mocking sound he made at the back of his throat was clear denial. "And deprive Pazzi of the only woman in Europe who can stand him?” He paused, gaze trained on the two men, then added: “I wonder if he knows he got the scraps from my table."_

_The comment was so malicious, so beyond the pale of what she thought him capable, that it shocked her into stunned silence. “That was cruel,” she said, when she finally regained her bearings. "Not just to Francesco, but to Novella."_

_He rolled his eyes, reached for the jug of wine at his elbow and refilled his cup. "I had forgotten you were such a defender of women."_

_"And I had forgotten that drink makes you a fool. What’s gotten into you lately?"_

_"Ask my brother,” he replied before snapping his fingers. “Oh, that’s right—you aren't on speaking terms with him either, are you? As a matter of fact, I recall you could barely stomach Piero’s christening."_

_Her face grew hot. He had never spoken to her that way. “Giuliano, stop.”_

_“Or what?” She watched his eyes turn to flint, and it was a look so unlike him that it left her cold. Adrift. Why was he maneuvering the knife towards her? And for no apparent reason? Was it because she’d defended Novella? Francesco? How could he think she was against him?_

_Perversely, her loss for words seemed to amuse him. “See, that’s your problem, Aurelia—you never could commit. Always afraid to make the first move, always following in our wake.” He motioned towards Lorenzo with his cup. “Always pining from a distance—"_

_"That's enough." She hated the shakiness in her voice. The uselessness of her words. Hated him, in that moment, for the way he’d caught the scent of blood and was hurt enough to want the kill._

_His gaze snapped back to hers. "Come on, let’s quit the pretense. You think he doesn't know what you're doing? It’s Lorenzo—brilliant strategist, great hero of Florence. He could have fought for you a dozen times. A hundred. But then, you never fought for him, did you?” He shook his head at her in disdain. “You play the martyr and call it goodness when the truth is you just never had the spine."_

_"Are you done?” Aurelia could feel the sting of angry tears, but she refused to let them fall. Not for him. Instead, she put her hands to work. She tore the wineglass from Giuliano’s fingers and slammed it down upon the table. If he wanted a fight, she wouldn’t take it lying down. “You know,” she said, making her eyes as heartless as his, “if you spent less time whining and playing the infant, Lorenzo wouldn't need a replacement brother.” When his blue eyes widened, the sight gave her a cold satisfaction. “Whatever this crisis of yours is, take it up with Lorenzo—not Novella, and certainly not with me. Or haven't_ you _the spine?"_

It was the worst fight they'd ever had. Everything that came before had been childish. Inconsequential. Petty and easily forgotten.

This was pointed and brutal, and it had hit her where he knew it would hurt.

But then, a few weeks later, he'd slinked into one of her dinner parties with his tail between his legs, looking so contrite that she'd forgiven him on the spot. "I didn't mean it," he said quietly, looking ashamed, “not any of it." She’d let him press a kiss to the top of her head, but it had taken some time to forget his words. To not feel the sting of truth in them, like a splinter below the skin. 

"You'll do well," she told him now, covering his hand with hers. And then, because he looked so very miserable: "She does love you, you know."

Those blue eyes lifted to hers, so much like Lorenzo's, yet so vastly different. "But is it enough?" 

A short distance away, Paolo had slipped on his godfather’s helmet. He rescued a discarded lance from the pavilion floor and wielded it over his head with an uncoordinated motion. Pretending to slay a monster, perhaps. Whatever it was in his mind’s eye, she hoped it wasn’t human. Not for the first time, when she looked at him, she saw the endless variations of what he could grow up to be. And felt the crushing fear of knowing that even the greatest of men couldn’t bend the world.

"She lives in pieces, Giuliano. In fragments of time. You are master of your own fate, but she has everything to lose."

"So do I,” he exclaimed, holding up his empty hands like a penitent. Not able to keep the passion from his voice. The hopeless love. “Without her—what is there? What is the point?"

She could find nothing else to say. He had thrown in his lot, and she couldn’t blame him for doing so. Not when she forsook all her promises for the same woman. For a bit of her light, for the way she made them all braver, somehow.

She wished him luck, called her son back, and together they made their way out of the pavilion. It was almost noon.

The crowd thickened the closer they got to the tiltyard. People pressed into each other all along the railings, craning necks and stretching toes to test their view, but the wealthier merchants, the nobles, and the first citizens all had the benefit of a seat in the stands. At the head of the square, elevated on a perch fit for a queen, sat the glamorous Laura Terzi, whose favor had been begged the previous year by Enzo Gentile, the tournament’s reigning champion. She would be their Queen of Beauty for one final afternoon before passing the honor onto another.

Aurelia moved carefully up the steps, holding tightly onto Paolo's hand as she took them higher, up to where Niccolò sat, waving madly next to Ginevra, his wife of over a year. Bartolomeo occupied the seat at the far end, lined face unexpectedly cheerful. He wasn't one for parties, but he certainly loved a tournament.

"Here, boy!” he called. “Come and sit next to your old grandfather." Paolo scurried up the remaining steps, heedless of her warnings to be careful, and launched right into his lap. They made strange companions, her lively son and hermit-like father. But the more they saw of one another, the happier he seemed, as if being so close to the proof of his legacy gave him peace. And it certainly benefited Aurelia, whose independence was contingent on her father’s goodwill.

She left the two to their amusements. Ginevra smiled as she made room for her at the head. She was a native Florentine, with long, brown, curly hair and eyes like fresh honey. "There you are! We wondered where you'd gone." She and Niccolò had not been in love when they married, but they got along tolerably and their marriage had pleased their families. Her mother, Antonella, was a widow and a respected _donna_ of society, herself from a house of old regard.

"Paolo wanted to see Giuliano off."

"He's a sure thing for champion, make no mistake, and I hope you told him so,” her brother leaned over Ginevra to say. “With Lorenzo and Francesco Pazzi sitting out this year, there's no one else who compares."

Aurelia's lips quirked. She certainly wasn't about to tell Giuliano that his victory depended on the absence of two men he wasn't much fond of at the moment. "If he does win, he'll be insufferable."

"But won’t the crowds love it!"

It was true. For all Lorenzo’s diplomatic prowess, it was Giuliano who was the favorite of the people. For his sportsmanship and golden good looks. That undeniable charm. A victory would only increase his popularity.

She hoped it would be enough to buoy his mood, but she doubted it. He wouldn't be happy until Simonetta stopped her arm's-length policy. Or until Marco Vespucci got run over by a carriage.

She scanned the stands for her friend; spotted her on the other side, nearer the bottom, with her husband's hand resting on her lap. He leaned over to whisper something in her ear, a clearly adoring look on his face.

He was not an unattractive man, Marco Vespucci. Middling height, dark curls, and he was certainly rich enough. His clothes were fine, and he wore gold rings on his fingers. But there was something about him Aurelia had never liked, not even in Genoa, when they'd met at the church of San Torpete.

She had walked out of Sunday Mass with the Cattaneos, only for Enrico to call them back to introduce them to his new friend—a fellow Florentine, he'd said, and Aurelia found that amusing, seeing as her husband avoided Florence like the plague. Then she'd seen Marco, his dark, appraising eyes, the way they had immediately fallen on Simonetta with a desire that made her heart clench.

She realized now it was the instinct that this man intended to claim her friend, to make her his and thereby destroy all the things that made her beautiful and alive and free. In a perfect world, Simonetta would never have met Marco Vespucci. Instead, she and Giuliano would have crossed paths, somehow, and the incurable bachelor would have seen the woman behind the beauty, just as he did now. He would have married her, and they would have been happy, with a handful of golden-haired, blue-eyed children. Boys as irresistible as their father. Girls who would have brought Florence to its knees.

_You never fought for him, did you?_

In that perfect world, would Lorenzo be by her side?

No, that way lay folly.

Those were thoughts she didn't allow herself, not anymore. Not when Clarice had two children and another on the way. Clearly, she and Lorenzo had found a measure of happiness together, and she wouldn't begrudge them for it. Wouldn't wish for it to be otherwise. That was a remnant of the old Aurelia—the one she had banished the night of Bianca's wedding.

Like magic, her eyes fell upon Bianca, her husband, Guglielmo, at her side. Their happiness had only grown with time. Contessina had been born to them but ten months before, and Bianca was already plotting her baby’s betrothal to little Paolo. "I think you're getting ahead of yourself!" she'd laughed. As tempting as a union was between her son and Contessina de’ Pazzi, she had decided long ago that Paolo would choose his own bride, when the time came.

But Guglielmo and Bianca weren't alone. The red-haired Novella sat with them, visibly downcast. Aurelia frowned. That was one turn of events she still couldn’t understand. She had wanted so badly for Novella to be the answer, the bridge that united the Pazzi to the Medici to the Valori. How had it gone so terribly wrong?

_She had hoped that, given time, Francesco would finally start to lower his guard. The wall that kept the entire world without, only Guglielmo within. Still, she was caught completely unawares when, upon the birth of his twin daughters, he called her to his home and said, with his eldest in her arms, "Novella and I have discussed it, and we were wondering whether you would do us the honor of being their godmother."_

_She'd looked up from baby Viola's sleeping face, an expression of complete shock on hers that the sight of it made Francesco's mouth tick up. From a chair by the window, she heard Novella's twinkling laugh. "Are you certain?"_

_"Of course we are. Your son is their cousin—and you are our kin."_

_She looked from Francesco back down to Viola. Pulled her closer into her arms. Toyed with the idea._

_Godmother._

_She'd never been anyone's godmother. It seemed a weighty thing, despite having a son of her own, to be in charge of the care of someone else’s child. To be trusted—by Francesco—to do so. She remembered that night, two years before, when they had stood together under torchlight and he'd given her permission to move on with her life. Not that he'd known it at the time, or even knew it now, but his plain counsel had been her guide ever since, and it had given her back so much more than she expected._

_She lifted her gaze back to his and hoped he could see the honesty in her words. "The honor would be mine."_

_And, for the first time, he rewarded her with a smile—warm and open, full of tentative trust. Of promise._

But it had not lasted. The differences between him and Lorenzo, it turned out, went far deeper than blood. They marked a fundamental difference in philosophy, in method and vision. When Francesco began to once again doubt the other man's intentions, Jacopo saw his opportunity to strike. And strike he did—like a bolt of lightning, straight into the heart of his nephew's home.

Novella.

By casting into doubt the provenance of his niece-by-blood, he shattered every bond of trust Francesco had formed outside of his uncle. By painting her as a spy for the Medici—one planted by Clarice, who had so well-intentionally arranged the match—he severed the alliance, and severed the marriage between Francesco and his wife.

The gossips said they hardly spoke. They were never seen in public together, and the only reason she hadn’t been returned to Venice was because of Guglielmo’s mediation. Aurelia herself had tried, on more than one occasion, to plead on her behalf, but she'd been turned away from both Francesco’s home and the Pazzi bank. She didn't know whether she'd ever see her goddaughters again.

Whether they'd even know they had a godmother, one who had held them over the baptismal font and promised to protect them with her very life, if need be.

The crowd roared, pulling Aurelia out of her thoughts. The procession was about to begin. She rose to her feet and clapped; to her left, Niccolò cheered and her son took up the joyous cry. As last year's victor, Enzo Gentile led the parade. Sun glinting off his armor as he held the champion's silver helmet up to the crowd with one hand, his horse's reins and the shield of his family in the other. The trumpeters released a brassy call that excited the audience to a fever pitch, for it heralded the coming of the challengers.

"Which banner is Giuliano's?" Her sister-in-law had to yell the question to be heard.

"I don't know." She craned her neck as she tracked each passing contestant. She saw lions and dragons, rising suns and rolling waves. One by one, the banners crossed the tiltyard, held by each challenger’s squire. A rearing stallion, a prancing bear, a serpent that seemed to shimmer in the noonday sun…

Aurelia's heart caught in her throat. The heat that pricked at her skin intensified to a maddening degree as she finally saw it. Giuliano's secret banner.

The likeness was undeniable. A blue-eyed woman with long, flowing hair the color of ripened wheat, wearing an armored breastplate. A crested helmet atop her head. It was the mark of Pallas Athene, but it was also, most definitely, Simonetta.

And underneath the depiction, three words, clearly painted: _La Sans Pareille._

The Unparalleled One.

The spectators went wild, but in Aurelia's ears their cheers became a low hum. Her eyes frantically searched out Vespucci, fearing the ire she would surely find on his face. Instead, she saw that he was on his feet, clapping proudly, oblivious, as he beamed down at his seated wife. Simonetta was not smiling. Though her lips curved dutifully, her eyes were stricken. Shocked. She had asked for distance and discretion; instead, Giuliano had proclaimed his admiration for all of Florence to see.

Aurelia barely noticed the joust. Didn't feel the time pass as the board dwindled from a tree of twenty-five, to ten, to five, to two.

In the end, it was Gentile, and the crowd’s obvious favorite—Giuliano.

The first pass went to Gentile, whose lance broke upon the Medici shield; the second, to Giuliano for returning the blow.

On the final pass, both men faced each other from opposite ends of the field.

The stands and yard grew quiet. Next to her, Ginevra reached over and clutched at her arm in an effort to calm her nerves. She was fairly certain Niccolò was biting his nails.

The horses whinnied, prepared to charge.

Then came the signal—the riders engaged, unflinching, galloping towards one another at a breakneck speed. They held up their shields, aimed their lances. At first, Aurelia thought he would strike at the shield again. It was a larger target, the surer thing. But then, at the last second, Giuliano changed tack, shifted his stance to strike at Gentile’s helmet.

Enzo raised his shield, tried to deflect the blow, but it was too late. The hit struck true and he lost his balance, toppling off his horse, landing on the hard ground with a crash that kicked up a cloud of dust. The crowd roared so loudly she felt it vibrate up her back.

Giuliano threw off his helmet and dismounted, reaching down to help Gentile off the ground. The men shook hands to raucous applause. At the same time, an eager Vespucci led his wife up the dais. Madonna Terzi unclasped her ermine cape and set it upon Simonetta's shoulders, crowning the year's new Queen of Beauty.

Aurelia had often heard women call what came next their favorite part of the tournament, when the victor claimed a favor from his queen. Ginevra certainly seemed to agree, with the beaming smile on her face and her hands clasped to her heart. But Aurelia's own felt tight as she watched the play-acted part, the bizarre depiction of a courtly love encouraged by Simonetta’s own heedless husband.

Giuliano reached the stage, dropped to a kneeling pose with the silver helmet upon his knee. "My lady, as your champion, I have come to claim a favor."

She watched Simonetta’s intake of break, the valiant way she kept all feeling from her face, playing to perfection the role of the regal queen. "What is it that you wish, Giuliano de' Medici?"

Aurelia wished she could see more than his back. That she could read the look exchanged between them. Finally, she heard Giuliano’s answering voice. "I ask for nothing, Madonna."

Simonetta arched a questioning brow. "You cannot claim nothing."

"I would settle for your favor."

Other men would have asked for her veil. For a kiss, even—and she would have been duty-bound to give it. Ginevra all but swooned. “Isn’t that romantic.”

The queen rose from her throne, placed a hand upon the shoulder of her knight. He lifted his head—a picture of selfless gallantry. “Do I have your favor?” he asked.

There was a hushed pause. Then, Simonetta lowered her hand, extended it towards him. An offer. An acceptance.

Giuliano took it and pressed it to his forehead, pressed it to his lips, and kissed her hand. The adoring crowd encouraged the ritual with claps and hoots and delighted yells. But on Simonetta’s face there was a look of knowing resignation, and Aurelia knew with all certainty what it meant.

Only God knew where it would lead.


	5. Part 5: Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The revived feud between the Pazzi and the Medici escalates, and the fallout is wider than anyone could have imagined.

The door opened beneath her stinging palms with an abruptness that sent her flying forward, head-first, onto the cold, damp floor. She gave a startled cry, reaching blindly for something—anything—to break her fall, and in the-near dark, her scrabbling fingers found purchase on a marble bust that took her weight before toppling over, shattering with an ear-splitting crash.

But there was no time to consider the damage, wouldn’t care even if she had.

After righting herself, she continued down the eerily silent hall, the lantern she held casting wild shadows onto the walls. The pouring rain, so very deafening outside, was muffled here, reduced to an underlying pulse that amplified her stumbling steps, the sound of her own quick breath.

 _Was_ that her breath? It sounded strange in her ears, shuddering and shallow.

And panicked—it was panicked most of all.

She turned onto the dimly-illuminated dining room to find Vespucci at the table, his supper forgotten as he sat hunched over in his chair, his head in his hands.

“Where is she?” Her voice was as foreign as her breath. Ragged. Touched by the wet and cold, a bottomless fear, and another emotion she didn’t dare name—not now, when there was no time for it. “What did you do?”

He looked up then. Lifted his head and speared her with a look full of hatred as he pointed right at her and said, between his teeth, “What did _I_ do? _You_ did this—with your lies and your schemes. You ruined her—we were happy before you came into our lives.”

No time for guilt; no time for outrage, either. She repeated, more emphatically, “ _Where is she?_ ” But he had bowed his head again, a picture of defeat so enragingly pathetic that she advanced without thought, swiping a dinner knife from the table and tilting his head back by a fistful of hair. Baring his throat.

Vespucci’s eyes were dark and empty, even as she pressed the point of the knife into the soft flesh of his neck. “Where is she, Marco?”

He stared back, unmoved.

She pressed the point further, as deeply as she dared without breaking the skin. “I swear to Almighty God, if you do not speak, I _will_ do it.”

And then, with the defiance of a man who would rather destroy his most valued possession than see it in the hands of another, he tilted his chin towards the dark hallway behind him and said, "She is in the dungeons.”

* * *

_Two Days Earlier_

Tucked away as it was, Sandro’s part of the workshop was quiet, within sight but removed from the bustling noise of the front, where artists of all mediums toiled the days away, mixing paints, refining sculptures, drafting sketches in fine silverpoint. Aurelia had certainly tried her hand enough to know that she was no artist. Still, she enjoyed their company. She liked the way they lost track of time and surroundings. The need to eat, the need to sleep. All as they gave themselves over to a state beyond mundanity into, she supposed, the divine. A priest would chastise her for saying so, but there was a reason why men once believed in the Muses. Pagan or Christian, inspiration always came from an Unknowable Above.

And whatever Muse had touched Maestro Boticcelli this time had certainly been in a generous mood.

“Sandro,” she said, voice full of awe, “it is… I am at a loss for words. You have outdone yourself.” He bowed his head bashfully, but she caught the proud smile on his face at her compliment, so she went on, motioning to the figure of reclined Mars, being careful not to touch the paint. “This detail here, in the line of the leg—the shading. The sense of shape…” She took a step back, took in the piece as a whole: Venus and Mars, blissfully reposing in a grove of myrtle. The figures were clearly modeled after Giuliano and Simonetta, but she ignored that for a moment, focusing instead on the intimacy of the angle, the sensuality, the playful humor she had not expected.

“There is a motion in the stillness, an effect like time stood still… No—like time slowed down!” She clapped her hands, delighted to have found the words for such a nebulous thought—one not too far off the mark, if Sandro’s laugh was any indication.

“Thank you, you are very kind.” Then he added, “Lorenzo said something similar.” Her pleasure dimmed, as it always did, at the mention of the name.

She took a half-turn away from the painting to rifle through the sketches on Sandro’s private worktable. There were many of Simonetta, but also a few studies on various flowers and birds. The line of a rooftop. A doorway. A woman’s hand. Affecting nonchalance, she asked, “Lorenzo was here?”

“He stopped by before leaving for Rome.”

Giuliano’s recent visit to the Florentine protectorate of Città di Castello had brought back a discouraging report of high taxes, corruption, and deep unrest among the people. If Lorenzo was braving the wrath of Sixtus to avoid a violent interference, he had to be desperate, and reasonably so. Losing yet another city to the Papal States—especially now, with Jacopo running against Petrucci in the Priori elections—could very well mean the Medici’s downfall.

A few years ago she would have gone to him, offered to do the impossible if it meant helping him.

“What is it between you?” asked Sandro. “Passion is easy enough to understand. But you and Lorenzo…”

Her hands stuttered in their shuffling. She took her time putting the drawings back, careful to neaten her feelings as well as the yellowed sheets of vellum, before spinning around to face the painter, her hands gripping the rough wood of the table behind her. “There is nothing between me and Lorenzo.”

A truth to cover a lie—or was it a lie to cover the truth? Either way, she should have known she couldn’t fool Sandro. He nodded once, more as a courtesy than anything, then turned his back to her, facing the painting, giving them both an illusion of privacy. “I have often asked myself what it is about Simonetta Vespucci that inspires such loyal devotion. Because, you see, I have done all this—" a broad sweep of the hand encompassing time as much as space “—for the beauty. To preserve it, to make it eternal. Giuliano would say he does it for love, but you…”

“I do it for her.” But it sounded defensive even to her own ears, so she added, “Because there was a time when she was all I had.” _Another lie, another truth._

Sandro turned then, his brown eyes stern, a furrow between the black of his brows. “But she’s not all you have. You have a son, a home. Wealth and influence. Prosperity. Yet you’ve spent the last few years of your life… What? Passing messages, making excuses, talking Giuliano off cliffs. I can see that you love her. I can also see that you haven’t stopped running since you came back to Florence. You can’t outrun a dream, my friend.”

She raised her chin. “But you can forget it.”

The look he gave her was sympathetic. “Not this kind. And not in this city.” The meaning was clear—Florence and Lorenzo were so inextricably linked that she couldn’t walk the streets of one without thinking of the other. All the busy-work, all the late nights, the parties, the dinners, dropping everything for Simonetta, and for Giuliano, too… Had she really done it all to forget him? If so, and if Sandro had noticed, she obviously wasn’t doing a very good job.

He took pity on her and changed the subject. “I thought Simonetta might want to see the painting before I delivered it to Vespucci, but I never heard back.”

She released her grip on the worktable, clearing her throat as she answered, trying to shake off the tension that had settled between them when they were discussing Lorenzo. “She has been unwell. A chill, she says. I wanted to pay her a visit, but if you are installing the painting this afternoon I think I’d rather wait until after Marco has finished plotting your demise.”

Sandro chuckled. “It’s a good thing he never found out I was the one who painted that tournament banner.”

“That infernal banner… The needless risk!”

“But it won her back, did it not?”

After his display at la _giostra_ , Giuliano had been conducting himself with surprising discretion and—dare she say it—even maturity. It was like he was trying to prove himself worthy of Simonetta’s love, taking on more responsibility at the bank, mending fences with his brother, not staying out all night drinking away his troubles. Still, she couldn’t say she would have been as forgiving. “If Giuliano had put me in that position before all those people, I would have strangled him—you see! I had my reasons for not wanting to marry him.”

“Yes, I’m sure your reasons had everything to do with an aversion to grand romantic gestures and absolutely nothing to do with Lorenzo.”

She glared at his droll remark. “I think I like our conversations better when you’ve a paintbrush in hand and aren’t paying any attention.”

Sandro threw his head back and laughed. “You only ever _think_ I’m not paying attention—shows how much you know.” Suddenly, he was watching her with a curious twinkle in his eye. "I’ve just realized something. We have known each other all this time, and you’ve never offered to sit for me.”

She laughed nervously, tugging at a loose strand of hair that had fallen over her shoulder. “Well, you’ve never looked at me and seen ‘the glory of God.’” The words were for show, only; Aurelia knew she wasn’t a famous beauty, not like Simonetta, but she had never found cause to mind. She didn’t need to enrapture the men of Florence—she had only ever wanted the one.

The intent, studying way Sandro was looking at her made her fidget. If it were anyone else she would have blushed and turned away, but she trusted him implicitly, knew he regarded his subjects with a near-religious chastity, so she let him look, tamping down the feeling of thorough discomfort that made her want to squirm. After an eternity, he spoke. “No, it’s not God, but there is something. I’d tell you what it is, but I don’t think you’d like it.”

She made a face. “Well, thanks for that.”

"No, no, no—you misunderstand! It’s only that you’ve never liked being seen. It’s why I’ve never asked—but, would you like me to? Paint you, I mean.”

“Would _you_?”

Sandro shook his head, a small, rueful smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Madonna Valori, I’ve never known anyone to go in circles the way you do.”

 _You’ve never had the spine._ Giuliano’s venom-laced words came back to her, making her smile flicker. Sandro would never put it like that, but the sentiment was a little too similar for comfort. She sniffed, trying for a lightness she didn’t feel. “Is that how you would paint me, then? _The Indecisive Madonna_?”

“I would paint the truth.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “I’m not sure I know what that is anymore.”

He drew near, full of earnestness, and placed a soothing hand on her arm. His expression was gentle and painfully kind. “Then you’re in luck, because I think I do.”

 _Would you like me to paint you?_ It was such a simple question. She had sat for portraits before. There was one in the Affini residence in Genoa, another in her father’s palace. But Sandro was a different kind of painter, more than a simple portraitist aiming to flatter. Hadn’t she ever wondered what he saw when he looked at her?

Yes, but she was also frightened to know.

_I’ve never known anyone to go in circles the way you do._

Yes or no. Two choices—what did she want? Why did she always struggle with the saying of it?

“All right,” she blurted out.

Sandro’s brows shot up, disbelieving. “All right?”

And then she did blush, embarrassed by the admission but liberated by the knowledge that it was done. It was said, and she couldn’t take it back. “All right!“ she repeated. "Even though my pride knows you’re only asking because you can no longer paint Simonetta.”

“Nonsense!”

She reached out to straighten the shoulders of his jacket, brushing away the dust and a few stray chips of plaster that had fallen onto the red fabric and into his hair. When she was done, she patted approvingly at his arms and said, “Whatever you say, Maestro. Send my regards to your Muse. And if Marco takes a swing at you, please remember to duck.”

* * *

“Hello, darling. Have you behaved?” After leaving Sandro’s workshop, she walked the short way to Palazzo Valori, finding her father and son sitting in the courtyard, Valentina standing quietly by in case she was needed. Bartolomeo came to his feet, his large, wide frame accentuated by the black of his cloak. It seemed he was on his way out, only waiting for Aurelia to fetch Paolo, whom she had dropped off in the morning for a visit.

“An idle question,” he grumbled in his deep, gravelly voice. “He is a Valori through and through, just look at him!” And then he took Paolo by the shoulders, looking down at him with a serious expression. “The proof is in the eyes, boy. If ever you begin to forget yourself, just reach for a looking glass.”

 _Niccolò has blue eyes_ , she wanted to point out, but she was stopped by a voice at the top of the stairs that made her spine stiffen and her jaw square off. When she turned, she found Valori-green eyes staring back at her from that height. “Hello, sister.”

“Filippo. I didn’t know you were in Florence.” She crossed her hands, still gloved in dark velvet, in front of her body. With him, it was best to be as narrow a target as possible.

“Only for the vote,” he replied. He descended slowly, similarly attired as her father in a cloak of deepest crimson. “The choosing of a new gonfaloniere is a matter of great import, and as Father’s eldest son—well—it seemed only natural.”

“And Alessandra?” She wanted to roll her eyes at his self-important tone, but dealing with his disapproving remark would be too much of a hassle.

“She and the boy are well, thanks be to God. They stayed behind in the country.”

Where Niccolò was all toothy grin and blitheness, their older brother, Filippo, took his role as heir all too seriously. She remembered a time when he had set her upon his shoulders and raced through the gardens until her delighted squeals rang through the house, but he would never do such a thing now. His face was all gravity, even as the tawny color of his hair and beard remained an exact match to her own. A physical likeness that only underscored their unbreachable divide.

Her gaze sharpened, catching on the phrase he’d used before. “A new gonfaloniere, you say? You do not think Petrucci will be able to hold his seat?”

Filippo raised his chin and looked down his nose at her, the way he always did despite knowing how much it made her teeth grit. “I find it best to take nothing for granted. There are many in this city who grow tired of Lorenzo and would prefer a change in leadership.”

She arched a brow, felt her lips purse despite her best efforts to give away nothing. “And are you one of those people, brother?”

“The Valori have always been loyal to the Medici.” But the way his mouth twitched told her he had read something in her face—something she had not meant for him to see.

“That’s not really an answer.”

“My opinion is neither here nor there. Father is the head of this family—I am merely here to support his wishes.”

Bartolomeo gave a hearty laugh as he clapped his eldest on the shoulder. It struck her then how much both men looked like one another, despite their different colorings. Even their faces were lining in similar ways. “Well said, my boy! Well said. And one day, when I am gone, you will be the one to lead the Valori.”

“And my son after me.”

“Blessed Virgin…”

“Did you say something?” Filippo speared her with a look, green eyes on green, competing for a futile prize. Futile because he had won it the minute he was born. It didn’t matter that Gianpaolo was six months older than his own son—if only he could stop being an idiot long enough to see it.

She gave him her best sisterly smile. “I asked if you were heading out.”

“Priori business,” he ground out. He had heard her just fine.

She shifted, clearing his way to the door. “Take care, then, brother. It’s a cold spring—wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.” She felt immense pleasure in watching him go, in the way his nose flared before he did. But then she turned back and caught her father watching her, a touch of reproach in his eyes. “Yes, Father?”

Bartolomeo pointed to his chest, eyes wide. “Did I say something? I’m just an old man taking in this… this atmosphere of familial peace.” Her cheeks warmed. Her father rarely resorted to sarcasm, but when he did, it was to fruitful effect.

She sighed, feeling slightly chastened. “Is the vote going so very badly that you needed to summon Filippo back into the city?”

“Your brother is right, you know. It doesn’t do to underestimate Pazzi, especially now, when he has Francesco back on side.”

She shook her head. “How can he really think Florence will be any better off with his uncle at the helm? Jacopo is a despot. At least Lorenzo respects the common people!”

“But his hold is slipping. You do see that, don’t you? Florence is a great city, but the Holy See is still the Holy See.”

He was right. Sixtus was a formidable enemy, and not just because of his Papal Army and the resources at his disposal. He was God’s voice on earth. Lorenzo was many things—cunning, brilliant, daring enough to do the unexpected—but he couldn’t compete with the Almighty. “Is there anything I can do?” She would ask her father, at least, if she couldn’t ask him.

“You?” Her father’s green eyes flashed with humor. “This is men’s business, girl. If you will, pray for a favorable outcome—the rest is up to your brother and me.” He knocked her affectionately under the chin before checking the fastenings of his black cloak and following Filippo out the front door.

After he’d gone, she stared at that blinding patch of daylight coming in, feeling foolish and frustrated. Useless. “Let us go, Valentina,” she said, not caring about the bitter note that shone through in her voice. “The menfolk have business.”

* * *

It was a lost cause, she knew, but the next day she went out to see Francesco.

Filippo’s magisterial posturing and their father’s dismissal had settled beneath her skin until she knew no peace. First, she had been _girl_ —unmarried and powerless—but she had paid her dues, done her duty, married well, ran a household, raised a son, became Madonna Affini, even as the name lodged in her throat. And now, after all this time, after all she’d done, she was still _girl_ , would never be anything else—if not to her father, certainly not to Filippo once he took the lead.

 _This is men’s business._ It was men who were threatening to tear the city asunder. And all for what? Their pointless pride? She would make Francesco listen. Even if it didn’t change matters, she wanted to look into his eyes and for him to know exactly what he was doing by supporting his uncle.

That is, if he even let her through the door. She sighed as the guard went inside, expecting to be sent away at any moment. She shivered in her heavy green cloak. The clouds were darkening; there would be rain again.

“Madonna Affini!” Novella Foscari came up to the entrance, spoke to the guard, who grudgingly allowed her into the courtyard.

“Novella?” she asked, not able to disguise her surprise. “Novella, how wonderful to see you. I didn’t know—” She stopped. She didn’t know that Francesco had allowed his wife back into his home. The last she’d heard, Novella had been staying with her brother-in-law’s family, but she couldn’t very well say that. She backtracked. “How have you been?”

“Oh, I am fine! Please do not fret. As you can see, I am with the girls now. It was kindness enough.”

“Novella, you are their mother—you should never have been kept from them in the first place.” She had no right to say it, but it was how she felt. So many in the city spoke reproachfully of Madonna Pazzi, a cautionary tale about displeasing one’s husband. But she had done nothing wrong and it was high time someone told her so.

Novella gave her a watery smile. Even now, she was trying to be respectful. “It’s been hard, it’s true… Jacopo never liked me, but Guglielmo has been like a brother. I could never thank him and Bianca enough for all they’ve done.”

“You deserve so much more.”

She began to reply but stopped abruptly. Staring over Aurelia’s shoulder, suddenly afraid.

“Who let you into this house?”

“Francesco, I—”

Aurelia turned just in time to see him in the doorway, hand raised, stopping his wife’s excuses in their tracks. “Leave us.” Without a second glance, Novella bowed her head and went into an adjoining room. Aurelia barely caught the sound of high, girlish voices before the door closed. Viola and Fiorenza. Her goddaughters. From behind her, Francesco spoke, dark and low. “What gives you the right to speak to my wife?”

She turned, determined to hold her wits. “I did not come for Novella, though I am happy to see her in better spirits.”

He ground his teeth, ignoring the blow to his marriage. “You’ve made it clear where your loyalties lie.”

“I? I do not sit on the Priori. I have no vote, no secret plan…”

“So you’re _not_ here to plead on Lorenzo’s behalf?”

“I do not plead,” she said. “And this isn’t about Lorenzo, it’s about Florence.”

Francesco huffed, a dry laugh without humor as he stepped nearer, closing the distance, holding her with a look. “In the mind of the Medici, they are one and the same, but they are wrong. They manipulate the people to their will. This is no _republic_.”

“And it would be a true republic? Under Jacopo?” She kept her head held high, met him eye to eye, because what if it was the last time? She had always been a little in awe of Francesco Pazzi, the sheer strength of his presence, the uncanny intelligence. But if this was the last time he ever spared her a word, then she would make it count.

 _If ever you begin to forget yourself, just reach for a looking glass._ She didn’t need a mirror, all she needed was this moment, speaking plainly for once, in this place, with this man. Trying to get him to see sense.

“My uncle does not seek power for himself.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Truly? Because, as I recall, he has very interesting ideas as to who holds the right to power!”

“After all this time and you still do not see!” he exclaimed, spinning on her with a fierce look. “Lorenzo has no love for anyone but himself. He was willing to throw my family to the dogs to preserve his bank, resorted to treachery to keep the alum rights—”

“You declare war, then protest when he fights back? Francesco! It wasn’t long ago that you sat at his table and called him an ally.”

“I will never make that mistake again.”

She sighed, world-weary and bone-tired. “Do you still believe he brought Novella to spy?” For a moment, she saw the uncertainty in his eyes. A flash of wistfulness, a touch of guilt. “I thought you loved her.”

“He ruined that too.”

“It’s all the same to you, isn’t it?” She took in the worry lines around his mouth, the shadows under his eyes. She couldn’t imagine this Francesco laughing, but she had seen it before, could remember what it looked like before he’d shuttered the doors, locking everyone out but Jacopo. “The truth doesn’t matter, does it? You are determined to hate him. At the expense of everything.”

“Anything that stands in our way should prepare to be done away with.”

“Including me.”

“Are you in my way?”

She shook her head. “I cannot let you ruin them.”

He seemed let down by her answer. He looked somewhere above her, breathing in once, letting it out. Then his brown eyes bore into hers—was that a touch of green in them, too?—as he said, “He will never love you. Not the way you want him to.”

Lorenzo was everyone’s weapon of choice these days. If they weren’t careful, the effect would wear off and then where would they be?

“Yes, well, I am growing quite used to disappointment,” she replied. “It wasn’t so long ago I felt proud to call you family.”

“I wouldn’t mourn the loss, cousin. You are well kept in replacements—the Medici, your painter, Madonna Vespucci…”

“I wanted you! I wanted Guglielmo and Novella and those two beautiful girls you put into my hands. But if you make me choose, it will never be Jacopo.” She heard her voice break. Let him hear it—let him know what he was doing, what he was giving up by continuing in this course.

But she saw him steel himself. Saw him harden and retreat. He wouldn’t believe her—he didn’t believe her. “Then we are at an impasse,” he said. “Fortunately, as you said, you have no seat. No place, no vote, no way to stop what is coming.”

“If you set your uncle loose on this city, Francesco, neither will you.”

He nodded. His decision had been made long ago. The die was cast—Jacopo had won. He had won Francesco and now he was coming for Florence. There was nothing else to be said. Except—“Goodbye, Aurelia. Never come here again.”

* * *

Her blood thrummed in her ears as she left the palace, the afternoon sky as grey as her thoughts. Francesco was right: what power did she have to stop Pazzi from becoming the new gonfaloniere? She was just a woman. Just a girl, with no property, no influence. Nothing but the knowledge that Florence was suspended over a knife’s edge, and that her family would totter along with the Medici if Jacopo had his way.

She remembered what Sandro had said, about the way she had spent the last few years running. Running, when she could have been doing _something_. But what did she know of power? She wasn’t like Lucrezia de’ Medici. She had not learned from a mother-in-law who was a force of nature. And as for the wiles of women, she’d never even had a mother to teach her the way. _No seat, no place, no vote._

A murmuring chorus brought her thoughts to a halt. Up ahead, a crowd was forming, summoned by the chilling wail of a woman sitting on a doorstep, her head in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. As she became one with the crowd, Aurelia caught fragments of the story. _Horrible—Knife wounds—Murder—Stumbled, bloody, into the street._ That should have been enough. Still, her feet carried her forward to the front. Then she stopped, recognizing the man in the center. His eyes were lifeless. The front of his body was covered in blood.

Her hand shot to her mouth as her stomach clenched. Even with fur-lined gloves in the way, the metallic scent of blood permeated into her nostrils.

Luca Soderini’s blood.

The crowd parted at the sound of running footsteps, the call of “Father!” piercing the hushed and heavy air. “Father…” His voice tapered off as he took in the sight of Luca’s body.

 _Knife wounds._ He had been stabbed, repeatedly by the looks of it. Savagely. Without mercy.

“Bastiano.” Though she’d never touched him in her life, had spoken ill of him a hundred times, she reached over, tried to turn him away from the gruesome sight. “Bastiano, come away, you needn’t see it.”

He refused to budge. His lip quivered as he said, “The Medici did this.”

Aurelia’s blood turned cold. She looked at the people, the way they hung onto his every word. Talk of this would spread like wildfire by nightfall. “Bastiano,” she urged, rubbing circles into his back. His breath was coming in violent shudders, his eyes red-rimmed, half-wild. “You’re not thinking clearly. Why would Lorenzo do this?”

“Because my father was going to support Pazzi in the election. I was there—I saw Lorenzo’s anger. He had my father killed because of it.”

“You are mistaken. Bastiano, you have to be mistaken…” But he was not listening. He had pushed his way forward and thrown himself upon his father’s blood-stained corpse, lost to grief and unreason.

* * *

She couldn’t bring herself to go to the Medici. By the time she got home, she felt chilled to the bone, rattled and exhausted. It took all her strength to pen the letter, to form the words— _Luca Soderini is murdered_ —and find someone to take it to Lucrezia in the middle of the storm that had broken almost as soon as she stepped through the door.

 _Why would Lorenzo do this?_ It made no sense. Giuliano had told her how much Volterra weighed on them both. The loss of life, their inability to stop it. Luca was an ally, and even if what Bastiano said was true, that he had been persuaded to side with Jacopo, she couldn’t imagine them killing over it—so bloodily, and in broad daylight for his son to find.

Her head ached. She looked in on Paolo, but his guileless cheer reminded her of the blood on the floor, so she left him with a kiss and went into her room, shutting the door to all but the black sky and crashing rain. Nighttime was still hours away, but she fell into a deep sleep, barely managing to loosen the stays of her dress before falling into bed. For a while, Aurelia thought she dreamt of the sea, of rolling waves and a rocking ship, but it turned out not to be a dream. It was a hand at her shoulder shaking her awake, and the urgent call of her maid’s voice repeating, “Madonna! Madonna, please wake up!”

She may as well have been underwater for the sluggishness of her response. “Valentina?” she asked. “What is it, what is the matter?” Her head felt heavy and her eyes hurt. She had slept through the remainder of the day. Outside, it was dark as pitch, and on the table next to her bed there was a candle that she had not lit. It was through its faint, flickering light that she saw her maid’s wide eyes, her anxious face. Oh, God, had somebody else died?

 _Not Lorenzo._ The words formed in her mind but caught in her throat, making her stutter and stumble until what finally came out was the daft, “Valentina, your hand is cold.”

“Please, Madonna,” Valentina insisted, “there is something wrong at Vespucci’s. One of the maids there is a friend. She said they had a visitor this afternoon, and that after he’d gone, there was a frightful row between them. I’ve known Eugenia all my life, Madonna—nothing rattles her, but this… I fear something terrible may have befallen your friend.”

Aurelia threw the covers back, rising so quickly that her head began to spin. Before she had even regained her balance, her maid was at her back retying the laces of her gown.

“I am going with you.” Aurelia spun to look, but Valentina stopped her with a strong hand at the waist and continued working. “I beg your pardon, Madonna, but I will brook no argument. You take a great many liberties for a lady, but if something happened to you tonight I would never forgive myself.”

“Very well,” she said. Then, a moment later, “No, wait! First, go to the Medici. Ask for Giuliano, tell him to meet me at Vespucci’s with all possible haste, then you may follow.”

“You can count on me.” Valentina finished with the dress, then set Aurelia’s cloak upon her shoulders. It was still raining. No matter what she wore, she would end this night soaked to the bone. Still, Valentina fastened the clasps at her throat and gave her a reassuring final glance. “God go with you, Madonna.”

She ran, heedless of weather or danger or time of night. More than once, she felt her feet slipping on the wet cobbles, but her pace never slowed. Not even with her soaked-through clothing weighing her down. As soon as she reached Vespucci’s door, her fists went to work, pounding on the solid wood until her knuckles tired. Then she struck open-handed, knowing without a doubt that Vespucci heard her.

When the door opened, she nearly tumbled in. Caught herself on a bust, her weight toppling it over. As she watched its shattered pieces scatter across the courtyard floor, she wished Simonetta had broken the entire palace down when she had the chance.

He knew. What other reason was there for “a frightful row”? Marco adored his wife to distraction; it was what had blinded him to the affair in the first place. How could the woman he worshiped not worship him in return? But now he knew about Giuliano. Somehow, his eyes had been opened and he had lashed out with a fury that had frightened her maid’s friend.

Fiammetta, the spy. It had to be her. They had underestimated the girl.

But wait— _There was a visitor this afternoon._

This afternoon… The frightful row came after the visitor left.

Could it be that the maid was innocent? A busybody, perhaps, but not the instrument of Simonetta’s betrayal?

 _What does it matter?_ she scolded herself as she weaved through the hallways, ignoring the chatter of her teeth, focusing on the glow of light that drew her into the dining room, where she found her best friend’s husband with his head in his hands.

What right had he to feel sorry for himself? Whatever had been done, it had been done by his hand.

“Where is she? What did you do?” Her voice was shrill from the cold. Shriller still from fear.

“What did _I_ do? You’re the one who ruined her! We were happy before you came into our lives.”

There were a dozen things she could say to that: _She never loved you. She married you out of duty, knowing she would always be unhappy. Every day spent in your company has been a misery, and whatever it is that you have done, she would brave it a hundred times over if it meant another day with Giuliano._ But there was no point. Just as there was no point in fighting the despair that washed over her in waves as the other thing he said settled into her bones.

_You did this._

It was true—she had always known it would end badly, and she had helped them anyway.

She wasn’t thinking clearly. If she had, she never would have done it, but those were her legs leading her to the table, her right hand reaching out to grab the knife, the metal shining in candlelight. It was she who grabbed Marco by the hair, her fingers digging in, pulling sharply, exposing his neck. And when she put the knife to his throat and threatened, it was her voice that said the words. “I swear to Almighty God, if you do not speak, I will spill your blood upon this floor.”

Marco’s gaze was vacant. “She is in the dungeons.”

The knife clattered to the floor where she dropped it, the tinny sound following her as she ripped through the door and down the steps, grabbing a candle on her way into the dungeons.

The dungeons. Why was she in the dungeons? The dungeons were no place for her Simonetta. They were for forgotten things, for thieves and criminals.

She called her name into the near-dark. “Can you hear me? Simonetta, it’s Aurelia—I’m coming!”

Nothing but silence.

Then, from somewhere to her left, a wet, racking cough.

“Simonetta!” she yelled, making the turn. The way was barred by a metal door.

A locked metal door.

She rattled the bars, banged on the iron with a frustrated cry, feeling tears prickle at her eyes as she took in the sight of her friend coughing on the floor of the dank cell. There was a sickly sweat at her brow, and she had nothing but a thin, dust-stained dress to ward off the cold.

“The key,” Aurelia said, uselessly. “I don’t have the key…”

“Step aside.” She had not heard Marco follow, but he stuck a torch in a sconce on the wall and moved to unlock the door. As soon as it opened, Aurelia dropped onto her hands and knees, taking Simonetta by the shoulders, feeling the thinness of them, the frailty. The way she shivered even as her forehead burned with fever. _A chill. You said it was just a chill._

Marco was staring at his wife with open shock, as if he couldn’t believe the damage he had wrought in his jealous rage. “Send for a physician,” Aurelia ordered. “Quickly. And send someone to help me carry her out.”

It was a testament to his bewilderment that he turned on his heel and obeyed her at once. After he’d gone, she settled Simonetta’s head into her lap, running her hands up and down her chilled arms. Wiping at her face with the wet fabric of her cloak. “I am here, Simonetta,” she repeated, over and over again. And when that didn’t feel like enough: “Giuliano is coming.”

A few minutes later, the maid Eugenia arrived, dark and plain and thin as a reed. At first, Aurelia doubted that the servant would be able to hold the door, let alone be of any real assistance, but she soon learned not to underestimate her strength or familiarity with the house. Together, they each took hold of one of Simonetta’s arms and hauled her through the darkness, out of the dungeons and into her bedroom, where a warm fire blazed in the hearth and the physician stood waiting.

He was a funny-looking man with a hook nose and a perpetual squint, but he set to work immediately, even as his patient fell out of consciousness with a loud, rattling breath. When he saw that they lingered, he shot them both a chastising look and bid them wait in the hall.

Marco was nowhere in sight. He had probably slunk off somewhere to lick his wounds, the great coward.

Under the light of a torch, Eugenia motioned to the sopping state of Aurelia’s clothes. “You’ll catch your death in that,” she said, leading her into a spare bedroom down the hall, where the crashing of the rain against the windows sounded deafening in the emptiness. The faded blue dress she gave her was rough to the touch, but it was dry and warm and she helped Aurelia put it on.

 _Nothing rattles her_ , Valentina said of the serious, stern-faced maid. And nothing had, until today.

“Eugenia,” she said, “who came to visit Messer Vespucci this afternoon?”

“I’m afraid I do not know, Madonna. A man, I suppose.“

“Did you not catch a glimpse of him? Hear something from one of the other servants?”

“I can find out, if that is what you wish.”

A clattering crash stopped her answer. The women looked up as the sound of angry yelling reached their ears. In the next second, Aurelia had dashed out of the room, neither knowing nor caring whether her dress was properly tied.

"Giuliano!” she called. He had Simonetta’s husband by the neck, pinning him to the dining table with a murderous expression. “Giuliano, stop!” She grabbed at his arms, tried to pull him off Vespucci as Eugenia and Valentina looked upon the scene.

“Messers, this is unseemly! The lady is dying—have some respect.” The physician’s voice stopped them all in their tracks.

_The lady is dying._

Giuliano released Vespucci, rounded on the physician—rounded on her—his blue eyes crazed and stricken with disbelief. 

_The lady is dying._

The three looked at one another without a word, a ridiculous tableau of resentments and desperation, drawn here on this night by the woman in the other room, whom this physician said was dying.

Marco let out one final, anguished growl and pointed a finger at his rival. “Get out of my house, you scoundrel!”

“Giuliano is staying.” Her voice was level and commanding, and both men paused in their glaring to look at her in dull surprise. “Marco, you will be silent and hold your peace. You knew exactly what you were doing when you threw her into that cell.”

“But I didn't—I didn’t mean—”

“Giuliano, go.” She jerked her head in the direction of Simonetta’s bedroom, eyes trained on Marco, daring him to stop them. He didn’t. He swiped a wineglass from the table and sank into a chair in the corner to sit in silence.

She hoped he festered in his own guilt.

A few hours later, when the rain began to taper off and Valentina had forced her to drink the hot spiced wine she brought from the kitchens, Giuliano opened the door, listless, his feet dragging upon the floor. “She is asking for you,” he said.

Simonetta was laid up in bed, her features waxy, the hollows of her cheeks giving away how much weight she had lost in the last few weeks. _Just a chill_ , she’d said. But she had known—she had known all along and she had kept it from them.

As if reading her thoughts, Simonetta reached weakly for her hand. Aurelia gave it, coming to sit next to her on the bed as Giuliano resumed his chair. They were silent for a long time, nothing but the crackling of the fire and Simonetta’s labored breathing to remind them that this was real and not just a horrible dream.

A sob climbed its way out of Aurelia’s throat, sharp and sudden, stealing all the air from her lungs. Her hand flew up to her mouth. “I am sorry,” she said, not knowing why she said it—there were so many things she was sorry for. “I am sorry, I am sorry…”

Simonetta squeezed her hand, a strange, peaceful look in the clear blue of her eyes as she said, “I am not.” Then, she took Giuliano’s and repeated, “I am not.”

They sat that way, linked by her hands, until the clouds cleared and brought in the morning sun.

* * *

Simonetta Vespucci was carried in an open coffin from the home of her husband to the Church of Ognissanti.

Aurelia sent her son ahead with her father, who had buried enough people to be intimately acquainted with grief and would be better equipped to answer all his questions. For her, it was an all-too undiscovered land. A hostile place where no quarter would be offered.

She was grateful for the long black veil she wore into the overcast bright—she wouldn’t know what to do with her face or hands otherwise—and for the solitude of walking towards the back of the funeral procession, away from the coffin.

She had already said goodbye to her friend; she didn’t need to see Marco putting her beauty on display one final time.

She felt hollowed out and empty, suspended over a bottomless pit with nothing to hold onto, nothing on which to cling.

_Simonetta is gone—and what is there?_

Lorenzo stood waiting at the bottom of the church steps. Face grave, dressed in mourner’s black.

“Giuliano?” she asked. It was the first word she had spoken to him in months.

His hair ruffled in the cold spring wind. Wordlessly, he shook his head.

“Oh.”

Giuliano wasn’t coming. _So I am to bury her alone, then._

It was that thought that undid her, bringing on the tears she had so diligently avoided all morning. She felt her legs weaken, imagined the ground rising up to meet her, but then Lorenzo reached forward and took her into his arms. “It’s all right.” He tucked her into his chest, the velvet of his jacket warm against her veil-covered cheek. His arms tightened around her as he kissed her head and said, “Everything will be all right.”

It wasn’t and it wouldn’t be, but he helped her up the steps, never once leaving her side.

At the door, she felt a hand at her back. It wasn’t Lorenzo’s.

“Aurelia…”

The voice sparked a memory from that dreadful morning. Eugenia running after her into the street, the way she doubled over as she regained her breath. Her worn-out voice as she said: _The name of the man who came to visit was Pazzi. Messer Francesco Pazzi._

She did not turn, stayed facing ahead as Lorenzo felt her stiffen in his arms, pressing her closer into his side, ready to move her forward if need be. Francesco was not daunted, not until he heard her speak, her voice hoarse, but vicious.

“I know it was you who went to see Vespucci.”

She did turn then, to watch the flash of guilt in his eyes that confirmed the truth. That repeated Marco’s whimpering excuse: _I didn’t mean…_

They never did.

She lifted her head, stared Francesco in the eye and said, “You are no family of mine.”


	6. Part 6: Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurelia makes new connections, and the Pazzi conspiracy finally comes to a head at High Mass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WILL NEVER WRITE A CHAPTER THIS LONG AGAIN. I miscalculated how many things I needed to fit into one part, so it just kept getting longer and longer and taking me forever, and now we have this. I apologize for the extra wait, but this one really threw me for a hard loop.  
> I’ll be taking a week off to get a jump on the next few parts, but I’ll be back in two weeks (with Tomasso!), and in the meantime, you can always find me on my Tumblr.

_23rd February 1477_

It was the first blue day in a week of heavy rains. The ground was muddy, the breeze still nipped with a late-winter frost, but the children were restless, and even Poliziano was at the end of his wits competing with a yellow sun and a barrage of birdsong. When Aurelia told them to take their lessons outside, he looked visibly relieved.

Paolo had been sharing his tutor with Piero and Maddalena for a year now, and in that time, he had grown both in presence and in confidence. He enjoyed the company of his friends, the responsibility of being the eldest; he even fancied himself a bit of a lieutenant to Poliziano, taking the lead when the Medici siblings went astray. Seeing as the results were so favorable, she wished she could take credit for the scheme, but it was all Lorenzo’s doing.

He never said so, but she knew he was glad to have Poliziano out of the house, away from Clarice, who disapproved of the tutor’s humanistic views. If it were up to her, the children would spend more time learning their Scripture than pondering the cosmogony of Hesiod, wherein the origin of the world was Chaos. Personally, Aurelia had seen enough of it in the last few years not to doubt its existence.

She walked the garden path with Lorenzo now. He’d brought the children, no doubt also making the most of the cloudless day, and had stuck around to speak with her. He did it every so often, when other matters didn’t press.

Giuliano had been right: if she had successfully kept him at a distance all that time it was only because he allowed it. _You think he doesn’t know what you’re doing?_ He did know, he had given her space and distance; thought, perhaps, that she had changed and wanted to defer to that. But when she’d had need of him after Simonetta’s death, he had availed himself to her with all readiness, offered the hand of friendship when no one else did—when Giuliano and Sandro were lost in their own spirals; when Francesco, whom she loved, had betrayed her.

It still cost Aurelia something to be near him, but she would pay it if she had to.

With a grin, he nodded his head towards Paolo, who was busily explaining to Piero—in perfect pedagogical tone, mind—the many errors of his Latin conjugation. The sight made her laugh. “I think you may have a young scholar on your hands.”

"If his biggest vice in life were to be Plato, I certainly wouldn’t mind.”

"You have done well with him. I’ve no doubt one day he will make Florence proud.” She blushed at the compliment, pleased for her son, who was turning out to be her greatest pride. He was sharp and kind, responsible, honest, interested in the world and so full of dreams. She hoped he never changed, though she knew he inevitably must—would, just as she had.

They came around and a bend and she stopped. Hidden by a tall hedge, they could no longer see Poliziano and his pupils, but they could hear their chattering, the high voices of the children carrying through the frosty air. She knew she had to do it, but she was nervous, and unsure of what his reaction would be. She cleared her throat. “Lorenzo, there is something I have been meaning to tell you.”

“What is it?” If she was unsure, it vanished at the gentle touch of his hand at her arm. At the look of warm concern on his face, the readiness apparent in his features that told her he would do whatever it took to fix what needed fixing, all she had to do was ask.

Under his watchful gaze, Aurelia reached into the concealed pocket of her skirts and extracted a neatly folded letter. Offered it to him, the blue wax seal broken but otherwise intact.

Lorenzo went still except for the hand that slid down her arm and wrist to take the letter, fixating all the while on the figure of the rampant lion. “This is the crest of the House of Sforza.” He unfolded the page. His eyes swept from the signature to stare in open wonder at her face. “You have been writing to the duchess of Milan?”

Aurelia wrung nervously at her empty fingers. Her face had grown warm and she only hoped Lorenzo was too distracted to notice. “We don’t… write. Not exactly.” She was glad when he began to read; it meant she could speak without his gaze upon her. “I sent her a letter of condolence last month, after Sforza’s death. I don’t know why—I’ve thought about it a hundred times and I still couldn’t say. Even after I sent it, I wished I could take it back, thought maybe I’d been too forward, that she would take offense to a letter written by a stranger. But then, a week ago… that arrived.”

“It says here that she was moved by your letter—Aurelia, this is an overture of friendship… from Bona di Savoy.” He raised his head, gave her that look again, and now she knew it wasn’t mere nervousness that had her pulse racing. It was the blue of his eyes—made deeper by the blue of the sky—the way they conveyed his surprise, reflected the smile that tugged at his lips, the touch of pride she could bask in forever without tiring.

She was used to these moments now, the ones that stole her breath and made her fingers itch to touch him. She never would, but once she got ‘round to the idea, it became easier to let the warmth of his care and approval wash over her. A secret pleasure she tucked away. If she had him in her life and he gave her that look every now and then, she could learn to be satisfied.

She came back to the moment, gestured to the letter in his hand, and said with a self-conscious laugh, "Well, what do I do with it?”

“What do you mean? Do you not wish to write back?” He was so genuinely perplexed it gave her pause. But then his face changed, understanding dawning on him in a way that was completely unsurprising. Was that not the reason she would rather speak to him than anyone else in the world? Only Lorenzo could read her thoughts with such ease.

Resolutely, he folded the page and put it back into her hands. “It is just a letter, Aurelia,” he said, “it needn’t be more than it is.”

She looked down at her hands enveloped in his. “And if I wanted it to be more?”

He watched her carefully, measuring his words as he did so. “A correspondence with Bona could make her more amenable to honoring the treaty, it’s true. But this can just be yours. You don’t owe my family anything.”

That wasn’t true, but she wouldn’t contradict him. Instead, she looked into his eyes and offered him a truth. A secret, perhaps the greatest of her fears. “I do not wish to grow old in these halls and feel my life has had no purpose.”

“Aurelia—look at me—that will never happen.”

He was so sure it made her heart clench. She shook her head, and though it pained her, she slipped her hands out of his. "My family is not like yours, Lorenzo. I do not enjoy my father’s confidence. He has never understood my restlessness, why I cannot be content, and lately… lately, the way he speaks has changed. He calls Filippo into the city with more and more frequency, they sit in his study for hours discussing the business, the Priori…”

Lorenzo spoke: “You think he is putting his affairs in order.”

It had not seemed such a big thing at first. Filippo had always been eager to learn, eager to lead, but her father always kept his ambition at bay. Until now. “What becomes of me when he is gone?” she asked. He opened his mouth and she knew exactly what he meant to say; she cut him off before he had the chance. “You cannot promise that. Don’t say you’ll—” She stopped. “Don’t say _that_. It’s not the way it works, and you know it.”

He sighed and turned away from her for a moment. She watched him sweep a hand through his sandy-brown hair. He was grasping at straws for her, mind reeling with strategies and counter-strategies. It was kind, but unnecessary. Finally, he landed on, “You could always remarry.”

Perversely, she wanted to laugh. Even he knew it was a terrible idea. She could see it in the slight cringe of his shoulders, the way his voice ticked up at the end. She shook her head. "There is no freedom in marriage.”

“There could be, with the right man… If he loved you.” He was standing in the middle of the path in a patch of sunlight that glinted off his hair, speaking of love and a man who would give her freedom. She imagined it was the kind of thing the hero would say in a ballad right before sweeping the maiden into his arms and declaring for her hand, pledging devotion, sealing the oath with a kiss. But this was no ballad, and the scene was several years too late.

“No,” she said definitively, “my son is my only hope. But if I must give up all else, I at least wish to be of use to someone other than myself.” She held up the letter, a message from a woman with enemies at the door and a son she was bound to protect. A woman like her. “I want to make this mean something. I just don’t know how.” All she had ever been prepared for was being a mother and a wife. That was her duty; the rest was men’s business.

Lorenzo was staring. Did she sound so very callow? She must—callow and silly and stupid. She turned away, ashamed at her own limitations, of the way his fiercely grand vision made them seem all the more pitiful. But she was wrong.

“I think you underestimate yourself. I’ve seen you watch my mother at work. You’ve an eye for it, a way with people. Instinct told you to reach out to the duchess, and there is your result—an opportunity to do good, not just for this city, but for Milan, for all of Italy. Whatever happens after your father… you will always have that.”

Could it be? It was a thrilling thought that even under the looming threat of Filippo’s thumb she may retain some sense of self, that she could have a measure of power, even. A role to play. A secret vote propped up by the people she knew, by women like Bona di Savoy who were trying to navigate a world of men, just as she was trying to do.

A sudden thought: “Did you ever meet my sister-in-law, Marcella?”

Lorenzo was thrown by the question, but he played along, brow furrowed as he shook his head no.

“I’ve only met her the once, at my wedding. She and Enrico were just half-siblings, you see, and they never got on. He forbade me from writing to her because she was… well, she was different. A little scandalous.” She paused. “She is mistress to Ercole d’Este.”

“Your sister-in-law is _Marcella Arrighetti_?” he laughed, shaking his head in disbelief as his lips curved into that big, wonderful smile. “You’ve been holding out on me, Madonna Valori.” His eyes were so alive, shining with mirth and confidence, a sense of possibility that made her feel like maybe she could be brave if she tried.

Still, she felt the need to warn him: “I don’t pretend to know a thing about diplomacy.”

“I’d say you already know more than you think—and everything else? You could learn… if you wanted to.” The way he said it set her heart to galloping. It was no abstract invitation. It was: _You could learn_ , and at the same time: _I could teach you._

It meant entry into a world far beyond her present knowledge, one where her ideas mattered, where their setting down on paper could move someone else to action.

It was closeness with him, working together to strengthen Florence’s place in the world.

That part was dangerous.

 _What do you want?_ For once, she did not go in circles, did not hesitate over the answer. What she wanted frightened her, but it was clear: “I do.”

* * *

It was no fleeting whimsy; her education began in earnest, turning her year into a whirlwind of visits and letters, banquets, books, and a myriad of introductions to people of import and influence. Lorenzo took it all very seriously, even enlisting Poliziano to fill in the gaps in her knowledge when it came to present treaties and alliances, the new philosophies, the movements overtaking Europe. She was starting to understand why Paolo complained of being tired even when he’d done nothing but study, but it was exhilarating work, and she took to it with a passion of which she hadn’t known she was capable, especially not after Simonetta.

Her favorite discovery, by far, was the world that existed right under her nose in Florence: the wives and mistresses of powerful men, who took her under their wings after getting over their initial surprise— _And here we thought you were too good for us, Madonna_ —and taught her things even Lorenzo could never hope to know.

Though far away, her sister-in-law Marcella was of this school, the one that recognized men were born to power, but that women could wield it through them if they so wished. “Dear, it’s nothing new,” she wrote to Aurelia once, “I could have told you ages ago.”

The letters with Bona were different. With the other wives, she often felt like she was playing a role, trying at every step not to seem young and provincial. But the duchess didn’t care that she’d been sheltered and controlled for most of her life. She knew what it was to struggle with uncertainty, to feel the burden of having to appear a certain way, when her true nature was another. She told Aurelia all about her childhood in Savoy, the mountains and hills, the scorching summers, the torrential rain; and about her fourteen brothers and sisters, one of whom was Charlotte, queen of France, who had ably handled a regency just two years prior.

But she never spoke of her husband, the former duke who had been assassinated in front of her and their son the day after Christmas in the porch of their church, just before Mass. When she asked Lorenzo about it, he turned serious, saying only, “Galeazzo Sforza was many things, but he was not… a kind man.”

Filippo disapproved of the changes in his sister—the busy social calendar, the way she knew every wife and daughter of every man on the Priori, the fact that she was carrying on with mistresses, bothering duchesses, spending far too much time in the company of Lorenzo de’ Medici for his liking—but their ailing father, Bartolomeo, saw her efforts as a bid to secure the future of his favorite grandson.

“When I am gone, you needn’t bother Filippo with your matters. He will guide you, of course, as head of the family, but you must see to Gianpaolo’s affairs yourself. The duchess-regent has two daughters, if I am not mistaken. It is never too soon to arrange a good marriage for him.” If he had to believe—wrongly—that she was angling for her son to be raised into the nobility to win some say over her future, then by God, she would let him entertain all sorts of wild fantasies.

When he finally died that midwinter, she had no reference for how she ought to feel. As a father, he was hardly affectionate, but he had always been around; never indulgent, but solid and reliable. _A pillar_ , Petrucci told her as he took her hand in condolence. _No doubt he will be sorely missed._

But it was with a guilty twinge that she realized she would miss the things he represented—safety, security, comfort, protection—far more than she would miss Bartolomeo Valori, the man. Her father was, and always had been, a mystery to her. A closed book, a locked vessel. And the hope for answers had died with him.

Naturally, his seat on the Priori was offered to and promptly accepted by Filippo, who moved his wife and son into the family palazzo as soon as Bartolomeo was lowered into the ground, and he was quick to lay down the law when it came to Aurelia as well, reminding her that, though their father had left her control of Paolo’s assets, he could always _kindly insist_ that a life of godly seclusion would be best for her.

She knew the threat was real, but it didn’t unsettle her as it once did; not many things did anymore, except, apparently…

“Aurelia, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you have been tapping at my desk for the last half hour.” She looked up to find Lorenzo laughing at her from his place at the window.

They were in his study awaiting the arrival of Bona and the new Sforza duke, and while she was there, she decided to make good use of her time and start on a reply for Marcella, whose daughter, Evelina, had just turned two. But focus had eluded, making her leg bounce and her fingers _tap-tap-tap_ —quite annoyingly, she assumed—while Lorenzo stood over there, looking maddeningly handsome and perfectly at his ease. She scowled as he came near and slipped the quill from her fingers, perching on the edge of the desk to watch the embarrassed flush rising in her cheeks.

“Have you anything to confess, Madonna, to explain this state you’re in? Is the duchess bringing along some dashing, young noble to pay you court and take you away to Milan?”

“Oh, do be quiet!”

She got up, went to the window, came back, and was about to do it all over again when he stopped her, laughing again, holding her by the elbows and saying, “You’ve written for the last two years, you’re practically old friends. What could you possibly be nervous about?”

Aurelia bit her lip, finding cause to be intensely interested in the empty fireplace. “What if I’m not what she expected?”

That made him smile. “If it’s worth anything, you are definitely not what _I_ expected, and I have yet to be disappointed.”

Her eyes darted back to his. “So, what you’re saying is it’s just a matter of time, then?”

He chuckled, leaned in to say something clever, but the sound of carriage wheels and horses got their attention. “They’re here.” Aurelia raised her hands to check her hair—an elaborate cascade of curls and braids that had taken Valentina more than an hour to secure—but he forced them down and said, “Stop fidgeting, you look fine!”

“ _Fine_ , he says!”

He grinned, “Fit for a duchess,” and led her by the hand out of the study, releasing it only when they reached the courtyard, where his family stood waiting. Bianca reached for her and pulled her close, Guglielmo, on her other side, shooting her a friendly nod and a smile. She was glad she still had this cousin, at least, even though her relationship with Francesco could never be recovered.

The duke and his retinue filed in, a group of two dozen, counting armed guards and soberly-dressed councillors. Lorenzo stepped forward to greet them, his best Medici manners on display. “Your Excellencies, welcome to Florence! It is an honor to have you with us. May I introduce my family?” One by one they approached Duke Sforza and his mother, until only she was left. Lorenzo waved her forward, a touch of that teasing still on his face, making her stand straighter just to contradict him. “And, finally, though I know you must be well-acquainted, our dear friend, Madonna Valori.”

Why, the duke was just a child! She knew it, of course, but seeing him in person brought the point home. A little boy—her own Paolo’s age, blond-haired with big, round eyes, and ears that stuck out a little. She hoped it didn’t seem condescending, but she couldn’t help the warm, maternal smile at the sight of him, all perfect posture and precocious gravity. She bowed. “Your Excellency.” And then she raised her sights to meet the regent.

She was a striking woman. Only a little taller than Aurelia, a bit austere in mourning black, with a veil to cover the rich brown of her hair, but it was her eyes that were truly remarkable. An olive green at the edge of the iris, fading into a color like amber near the pupil. She bowed again. “Duchess Sforza.”

This close, she remembered what Lorenzo had told her about Galeazzo. _He was not a kind man._ His widow bore it in the downturned mouth, the guarded features which made her look forbidding and stern, older than her twenty-nine years. But when she had risen, Bona surprised her by inclining her head. Not a bow—her birth did not warrant such a gesture before a duchess, the own daughter of a duke and a princess of the blood—but a mark of clear respect. “Madonna Valori, the honor is mine.”

She tried not to, but she stared; there was no getting around it. The difference between the open, gentle woman from the letters and this sable-trimmed figure with a bearing like armor was jarring, not to mention the reality of her power, that she commanded one of the strongest armies in the peninsula.

The voice of doubt in her mind sounded a lot like Filippo’s: _What are you doing meddling with a duchess?_

Once again, Lorenzo saved her. He touched briefly at her back before addressing his guests. “You must be weary after your journey. Please, allow my wife to show you to your rooms. There will be time to settle in before the banquet this evening.”

Clarice came forward, a stunning hostess in a purple gown, and gestured for the duke’s party to follow. As she did, Bona took hold of Aurelia’s arm and asked, with more familiarity than her stoic appearance would suggest, “Will you stay a while, Madonna?” She snuck a peek at Lorenzo; he was smiling at her to go on.

“As you wish,” Aurelia replied, and she let the duchess lead her away.

* * *

The success of the Milanese visit meant she felt little guilt about excusing herself from Cardinal Riario’s banquet the following month. She took one good look at Lucrezia’s guest list, saw the names _Jacopo Pazzi_ and _Marco Vespucci_ and decided to develop a chill on that exact evening—a rheumatism, a case of croup—anything to avoid the sight of two men with whom she was incapable of feigning civility. Not to mention Francesco.

Aurelia had never known before she started on this course just how busy the time around holy seasons could be, how willing everyone was to strengthen bonds of friendship, to bury old feuds, how important it was to take advantage. That was certainly what the Holy Father seemed to be doing, sending his own nephew to Florence after years of animosity with Lorenzo. But Aurelia was not entirely convinced, not when she knew Francesco had recently been to Rome. Whatever the plot, she was sure it would come to nothing; in the meantime, she was determined to enjoy this rare chance at solitude.

She settled into bed, a candle at her side and a worn copy of _Euthyphro_ in her lap, and began to read:

_“Then we are wrong in saying that where there is fear there is also reverence; and we should say, where there is reverence there is also fear. But there is not always reverence where there is fear; for fear is a more extended notion, and reverence is a part of fear, just as the odd is a part of number…”_

A loud tap at her window made her start. She stared, wide-eyed, until it happened again.

 _Tap!_ Sharper this time.

She wrapped her dressing gown more tightly around her frame and—there it was again: _Tap!_

By the light of the candle she saw that it was a stone; someone was throwing stones at her window.

She got out of bed, swung the pane of stained glass open and looked down, shaking her head when she saw who it was in the darkened garden. “Giuliano, what on earth—?”

“Would you leave a poor man out here to die of cold?”

“It is the day before Easter, it is not _cold_ —but you _are_ drunk!”

His arms opened wide. “All the more reason to let me in!”

For a second, she really did consider shutting the window and leaving him outside, ignored, the way he had done to her after Simonetta. He had missed her own father’s funeral—what could she possibly owe him after that?

She huffed, raising her eyes to the inky heavens, knowing someone ought to stop him always getting his way, but that it would never be her. “Wait there, I am coming down.”

She padded down the torchlit passage to the garden-side door, opened it with a threatening glower and a finger to her lips. _Be quiet._ In response, he threw his hands up like a hostage and made his own way into the dining room, whereupon he immediately reached for the decanter of wine.

Aurelia raced forward, snatched it out of his grasp. “It is the middle of the night!”

“ _Shhh_ , keep your voice down!” he admonished. “This really is a poor show of hospitality.”

His attempt at humor grated, making her snap. “Giuliano, I’ve not spoken to you in weeks. What do you want?” 

“Do you know what day it is tomorrow?”

His eyes were bloodshot, but she realized he wasn’t as drunk as she first assumed. Misery rolled off him in waves, accentuated by the rumpled state of his clothing, the wild mess of his hair. She could have been smart and said _Sunday_ , but she knew exactly what he meant, and she would never dream of being facetious about such a thing.

“Two years,” she answered.

A nod, a tightening of the jaw. “Two years.”

Two years to the day since Simonetta’s death.

She sighed, set the decanter back on the table. “Is that why you’re here?”

Giuliano ignored her. He pulled noisily at a chair, the scraping sound making her wince in the otherwise silent night, and dropped into it like a dead weight, his outstretched legs crossed at the ankles, his words slurred from propping his chin with his hand. “Did you go to that ridiculous banquet tonight? Play nice with our good old friend Vespucci?”

“Of course not.” Aurelia took the chair next to his, making sure to put herself between him and the wine. If he wanted to drink, there were a hundred other places in Florence where he could do it, but if he wanted to be here—at this hour, with her son sleeping upstairs—then he would behave himself accordingly. “Filippo is representing the family,” she added. “I’m sure he must be _thrilled_.” With her out of the way, he could play master of Florence to his heart’s content; she was practically doing him a favor.

“Mm. You know, I’ve never liked your brother, and I don’t think he’s ever liked me… He used to like Lorenzo, of course, but that’s all done with now.”

“He thinks you frivolous,” she explained. “And as for Lorenzo, Filippo feels threatened by anyone with a large enough shadow.”

Giuliano snickered, shifting his head to rest on his temple instead of his chin. “Good theory, points for plausibility, but that is definitely _not_ the reason.” She frowned at his all-knowing expression. What was he talking about? She hadn’t the faintest notion, and he was enjoying keeping her in suspense. Finally, after sitting up and theatrically clearing his throat, he said, “Filippo… Filippo, Filippo… How shall I put it? He thinks Lorenzo is—sorry, I was about to use a certain phrase and I’ve just realized there is a lady present, so, in deference, what I will say is he thinks his beloved sister—that would be you—is having her honor debauched on a regular basis.”

“ _What?_ ”

He raised his hands. “Don’t blame the messenger, you do spend an awful lot of time in his study.”

“In his _study_!”

“There’s a lot you could get up to in a study.”

“My God!” she exclaimed, horrified. Knowing, deep down, that what he said made perfect sense. “Is that what Clarice thinks? Is that what your mother— _Giuliano, no!_ ”

He had used the momentary distraction of her surprise to lunge for the wine decanter. She was but a split second too late and she was forced to watch, chagrined, as he poured himself a glass and finished it in a series of long, greedy gulps. He seemed rather pleased about it, too, couldn’t understand the reason behind her harried expression. “Oh, come on, leave a grieving man his medicine!”

She pointed a finger, turning stern. “Your medicine, Giuliano de’ Medici, would be to stop this… whatever _this_ is and reclaim some responsibility for yourself.”

“Ugh, you sound like my mother.”

“Well, she’s right!”

He rolled his eyes, muttered, “Not this again” in an undertone before adopting a bitter, know-it-all expression that set Aurelia’s teeth on edge. “All right, say I do stop drinking. Never touch another drop again, start going to those mind-numbing Priori meetings, be a good little brother, go to church, say my prayers, so on, so forth, do my family’s bidding… What is—what is the _point_? She’ll still be dead—ow!”

She hit him again, harder, on the side of his stupid head. She was so angry she had left her chair, raised her voice, forgotten all about her sleeping son. “You are being ridiculous! Ridiculous, pathetic, _selfish_ … Of course she’ll still be dead, but you are not! Exactly what are you trying to achieve with this behavior, Giuliano? Put your mother in an early grave? Because I have tried to understand you, I have excused and defended, but if you insist on continuing on like this, then I cannot do it anymore! You have people who love you—despite your best efforts, despite the way you’ve let us all down for the last two years—and, God help us, but if we haven’t given up on you yet, I doubt we ever will. So if that is your intention, to be left alone at sea so you can have yet another reason to feel sorry for yourself, you can stop now, all right? _Please_ , just stop this nonsense and pull yourself together!”

She finished, breathing quickly, expecting protestation, aggravation, a sharply honed turn-of-phrase. She didn’t expect him to wordlessly pick up another glass, pour more than the proper measure, and slide it in her direction. Or for him to lean back in his chair and leave her in silence to compose herself. To sit back down and peer into the dark red contents of the cup, wondering how much face she’d lose if she accepted it.

When she was calm enough to hear the chirp of the crickets again, he spoke. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you and I had gotten married?”

The timing of the question was strange, but she had to admit the thought had crossed her mind over the years. Which was why she was able to say, with full conviction, “She still would have married Vespucci. And, I see where you mean to go with this scenario, but it wouldn’t have worked.” She loved Simonetta like a sister, but she didn’t know how that feeling would have held if she’d been her husband’s mistress. And, of course, marrying Giuliano would have meant…

“Why not? Because you’re in love with Lorenzo? No, no, no—you do not get to roll your eyes at me, Madonna! You’re always inserting yourself into my business like some kind of… some kind of annoying Greek choir, but God forbid anyone try to get some honesty out of you. You’re in love with him,” he declared. “You were in love with him then—it’s why you didn’t want to marry me, why you preferred old man Affini to being the wrong kind of Madonna de’ Medici—and you’re still in love with him now. In spite of the wife, the former mistress, the fact that Florence is his wife and mistress…”

“Fine,” she ground out. “But, how did you put it? Oh, that’s right: what is the point?”

“Exactly!” He banged on the table with his fist, making their drinks slosh. “Exactly! _What is the point?_ Simonetta will always be dead, Lorenzo will always be married to Clarice, and you and I…” He shook his head. “You and I will always be here, drinking away the memory of our lost loves in the middle of the night.” Was this really the kind of melancholy bilge he spent his days thinking about? No wonder he drank. He went on: “All I’m saying is, if we’re going to be miserable, we might as well have company.”

She blinked. “Was that a proposal?”

But he had already moved on, the idea of their hypothetical marriage forgotten just as easily as it occurred. “What is the point…” he mused. “What—is—the point. You know, if your brother already thinks you spend your days fornicating with mine, why not just do it? No? Is it a platonic love, then? You fancy yourself another Botticelli?”

She latched onto that final point: “You need to make amends with Sandro, I mean it!”

He shrugged. “You’re avoiding the question—that’s fine, I already know for a fact that it isn’t. The villa? The summer before you married?” He peeked at her over the edge of his wineglass. Traitorously, she felt her cheeks going red.

“I knew it!” he crowed. “ _I knew it!_ And our parents in the middle of marriage negotiations… You faithless woman, I take my proposal back!”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was such a ridiculous situation, arguing missed chances with this half-drunk man she had known all her life and loved like a brother. Disliked immensely, at times. And yet he was the only one who knew the full truth of her, who was brave enough to bring it up, to her face, and make light of it.

He fiddled with the stem of his glass. “Personally—and this is just my opinion—I’ve always thought you were too good for him.”

“That’s not true.”

“No, it is. But it doesn’t matter when you’re in love, does it? You would burn down the entire world, yourself along with it.”

She reached for his hand. “You haven’t burned everything yet, you know”

He stilled as he looked her over. She worried she had said the wrong thing, but no sooner had she thought it than he leaned in, wine-stained lips seeking hers. She was so taken aback she let him do it, a remote part of her curious as to what had so enticed Simonetta. He brought his hand up to her face, cradled her head. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, but the truth was she was ultimately unmoved.

He pulled away, studied her expression, and she knew they had both come to the same conclusion: much obliged, but must decline.

“Right,” he said, coming to a stand, “I’d say this is as good a time as any to make an undignified retreat. A man’s got to know when he’s got no chance.”

Her lips curved. “As does a lady.”

“I’ll behave myself from now on. I promise.” He repeated, more earnestly: “I promise.”

She believed him. He seemed different already. Less defeated. She didn’t flatter herself by thinking it was her doing; it was simply time. “I am glad,” she told him. “It’s what Simonetta would have wanted.”

“I know.” He reached over and stroked at her temple with the pad of his thumb. “You’re all I have left of her, you know. I’m… sorry… for being a coward.” Then he bent down, kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Aurelia watched him shuffle out. Remembered, at the last moment, to yell, “And go home, Giuliano!” There was a sound of assent, the door opened and shut, and he was gone.

* * *

_26th April 1478_

Ginevra was abed with a head-ache and could not go to Mass. Before leaving, Aurelia popped into her chamber to say hello, found the drapes drawn, the room in near darkness, a servant carrying in a poultice for her head. The sharp, tangy smell of vinegar filled the air as her sister-in-law sat up with a wince. “Of all the days…” she moaned, seeing her in the doorway. “What will people think?”

Aurelia came forward to rub soothing circles along her back. The pain was a frequent occurrence for Ginevra, coming and going without any reason, made worse by lack of sleep. Both she and Niccolò looked worse for wear since the birth of their second son, Alfonso, a few weeks before Bartolomeo died the previous winter. He was a sickly baby, and the constant worry had taken its toll, though, in the case of his parents, it had also brought them closer together. “Don’t you worry. Paolo and I will keep Niccolò company, and afterwards, if you are feeling better, we will dine together as a family.”

Ginevra stared, stuttered, “Oh! Well, that’s—I really don’t know…”

She smiled. “Not Filippo, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh, no, no—I mean, it was, but on second thought, what a horrid thing… I could never… Poor Alessandra—you must invite her, too. I’ll have to let the cook know, of course, the servants…”

“I will see to everything, all you need to worry about is getting some sleep.”

“Sleep—during Easter Mass, the shame of it—and the Holy Father’s nephew—!”

As the carriage rattled away, she determined to spend more time with Niccolò and his family. Their father’s death had hit him hardest: he, who had always wanted to stand in his own light, be more than the spare, something other than the unneeded afterthought. He would never gain the approval he sought now; the game had ended before he could even make a play.

“Are you well, Niccolò?” He was absently gazing out the window with his chin in his hand. His looks had not palled; he was still handsome as ever—all square jaw, straight nose, non-Valori grey-blue eyes—but there was a gravity to him now, a sense of duty. A despondency, too, from not knowing what his place ought to be. She knew the feeling well.

“Hm?” he said. “Oh, me? I’m fine. Fine…”

“Are you certain?” she asked. “Because I’ve told you, if you and Ginevra ever need the help…”

“Oh, no, we’re all right, don’t fret.”

She took his hand. The ring on his pointer was solid gold, the bear of the Valori standing strong and proud. “I know I have been occupied with other matters recently, but you are still my brother. If you ever have a need…”

He chuckled a little at that, turned his hand to clasp hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s nice to know I may still compete with duchesses now and then.” He looked back out the window then, a pensiveness apparent as he wondered aloud. “Any truth to it, do you think? Peace with Rome.”

It was a question he would never have asked before but, she supposed, as a father of two boys, matters of state were of a little more relevance to him now than when he was a younger man.

Aurelia’s gaze darted to Paolo. She had her thoughts about Sixtus, not all of them flattering, yet she still hesitated to speak ill of the Pope in front of her nine-year-old son. “It is what the Holy Father says.”

Paolo, with his inconvenient shrewdness, spoke up from his place by her side. “But why is the Pope angry with Florence in the first place?”

Her brother said, “Not with Florence, son, just with Lorenzo.”

She patted her son’s arm, fussed with the cuffs of his new green doublet. He favored the color, with his reddish hair and eyes like emeralds. He was beginning to look like her, which meant he also bore a striking resemblance to Filippo. “There have been a few disagreements in the past, love, but that is why Cardinal Riario is here to conduct High Mass. It is a gift of goodwill.”

From Niccolò: “So he says.”

“Yes, so he says.”

The Duomo was brimming by the time they arrived. The sounds of the faithful spilled out of the open doors, coaxing them forwards and into the nave. She knew arranging matters with Ginevra’s servants had taken some time, but she regretted not being quicker about it when she saw that Filippo and Alessandra were already in the family pew, straight-backed and forward-looking, not speaking to anyone.

As a couple, there was no doubt that they cut a striking figure—he, all tawny strength; she, with her willowy grace and eyes that were almost feline—but there was a frigidity to their exchanges, a separateness Aurelia could note even from behind. That remove was even more pronounced between her brother and his son, young Bartolomeo, who, despite his name, was entirely his mother’s creature: flaxen and frail, with a tendency towards daydreaming and long silences. There was not a trace of his father in him and Filippo resented it—resented, too, that his Salviati wife had not given him another son, that Niccolò had two, that Paolo had been their father’s favorite. She would feel sorry for him and his legion disappointments, if only he didn’t insist on making that difficult, too.

“Better late than never,” he greeted them without turning. 

Niccolò’s put-on smile was blinding. “ _Are_ we late? I seem to see quite a few people still milling about.”

The slight tick in his jaw pleased her. To think—he thought her the very Harlot of Babylon, yet said nothing, preferring to stew in his own resentment while subjecting her to all sorts of veiled threats and aspersions, never giving her a chance to defend herself.

She left her brothers to their barbs. There were many in the surrounding pews with whom she was well-acquainted: Madonna Risaliti and her husband, Giustino, whose Priori vote was fiercely fought for because he was loyal to no one but his own conscience.

Margarita, sitting behind and a few seats over, was the banker Ippolito Sardi’s mistress. She was possessed of both a prodigious memory and a knack for numbers. Some said she kept her lover’s books better than he did.

And, across the aisle, pretty Domenica Lotti waved hello, the maiden daughter of a jurist, in love with a promising young clerk from Pistoia. Aurelia’s world was so much broader than it had been a year ago, and she was sure it would only grow broader still, in time.

With the start of Mass approaching conversations began to dwindle, and those who were standing moved steadily in the direction of their seats. She saw Lorenzo entering through the doors, his brother at his side looking sprightlier than he had in months. They didn’t stop—they were bordering on late as it was—but Giuliano did grin and throw a wink in her direction that made Filippo turn thunderous. She shot him a withering glare; he had done it on purpose.

Soon after, the altar bell rang through the cathedral and the cardinal entered in his vestments, so young and slight that the mitre he wore seemed to swallow him whole. _Any truth to it?_ Niccolò asked in the carriage. She couldn’t say, but he was certainly here, a Riario cardinal in Florence.

The first liturgy came and went. It was a ritual so well-known to Aurelia she could go through the motions with her eyes closed: the “Amen,” the hymns, the silence, the prayer. It was not until the Eucharist that she noticed the change in Filippo, the shifting eyes, the restless air as they kneeled for the Consecration.

His voice came from her right. “Something’s not right.” The grave way he said it—the fact that he spoke at all—made her head turn, and she wasn’t the only one. Alessandra and Niccolò did as well, so they were all looking at his frowning face when the bone-chilling scream pierced the silence of the church.

Immediately, they leapt to their feet, heads snapping to the source as all around them people also came to standing, echoing the fearful, distressed cry, scrambling over one another, pushing to exit the doors of the church. It was chaos, but Aurelia could not move.

Lucrezia—it was Lucrezia who had given that first terrible scream, and now she was doubled over as if in physical pain as her daughter-in-law tried pulling her towards the safety of the sacristy. But, like Aurelia, she refused to move. She just kept screaming, a sound that came from a bottomless place of the worst kind of anguish, as she watched the armed men falling upon her sons.

Her sons.

Lorenzo, with his throat slit.

A wounded Giuliano stumbling forward to give him a weapon as Francesco Pazzi came up from behind and plunged a blade into his back.

She felt her own scream rise, but it lodged in her throat like an iron ball, only a pained, choked sound coming out as Niccolò yanked at her arm. The socket of her shoulder burned with the force of it; still, her heels dug stubbornly into the floor.

He was trying to get her out—why was he trying to get her out? Wasn’t anyone going to _do_ something?

“What are you doing, man?” she heard Filippo yell as he herded his wife and the two boys into the aisle. “Get her out of here!”

“I am trying! Aurelia—we have to go.”

“Mother!”

But not even Paolo’s cries could pierce through the fog of Marco Vespucci holding Giuliano by the arms as Francesco stabbed at his chest, his abdomen, anywhere his sword could find purchase. Giuliano had begun to bleed from the mouth, his limbs were sagging uselessly like a rag, and that was when Aurelia truly screamed. A shuddering sound that left her without strength and allowed her brother to drag her to the doors.

Outside was pandemonium. Those inside the church had run fearfully into the street, not knowing exactly what happened but knowing it had happened to the Medici. Not wanting to share their fate.

Her family stood by the bell tower watching the entrance of the cathedral. Alessandra was white as a sheet, but she had the boys by the hand—young Bartolomeo in one, Paolo in the other.

Gianpaolo. The sight of him made her strong enough to rip free from her brother’s grasp, to run towards him and throw her arms around his shoulders. His whole body trembled in frightened spasms.

“You’re all right.” Her voice was shaky and absent, but a part of her knew he needed to hear the words, that it was her duty to say them. She kissed his tear-soaked cheek, whispered, “It’s going to be all right.” It wasn’t, and it wouldn’t be, but he clasped at her neck and let Aurelia hold him. Above her, she heard her brothers conferring.

“Take the women and children to my house.”

“No, mine is closer.”

“Fine.”

“Where are you going?“

"Palazzo Vecchio. This is no mere assassination—this is a coup.”

Assassination. _Assassination_. The awful word stuck to her ears.

Giuliano on the floor, Lorenzo surrounded by killers, blood spilling from the open wound at his neck.

 _Assassination_ meant dead.

She barely managed to release her son in time. One moment, she had Paolo pressed to her breast, the next she was bent over, vomiting onto the ground, the heave bringing a sting of tears to her eyes.

Filippo’s impatient voice: “For God’s sake— _go_!” He turned on his heel and followed the frantic crowd to the government seat.

Niccolò knelt down next to her, patted uselessly at her back, repeated, “We have to go, Aurelia.”

She wiped at her mouth even though the sharp, unpleasant taste of bile stuck on her tongue. “No,” she gasped out. “No, Lucrezia is still in there! Clarice—Lorenzo, oh God…”

“ _Listen to me!_ ” Niccolò grabbed her by the shoulders, his thumbs digging into her skin as their knees bit into the hard cobbles. He pointed to the church. “Some of those men are hired killers. They are no pedestrian cutthroats, they are soldiers-for-hire! If you go in there now, you may never come out. Please, let us go home. Think of Alessandra. Think of the boys.…

"I can’t… I can’t…” Her voice broke. Lucrezia’s desperate cries reverberated through her skull—and would she ever get them out?

"Mother?” Paolo was tugging at her sleeve. Her sweet boy. The one Giuliano had promised to teach to fight and joust and ride. _The best in Florence._ He’d promised. He had _promised_ …

“Mother?” he asked again.

She could hardly see him through the tears that flooded her eyes, but she reached for him, cradled his dear face in her hands, kissed the middle of his forehead, and though she didn’t know for whom she meant the words, she repeated them like a litany into her son’s hair: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I am so very sorry…”

* * *

_30th April 1478_

Aurelia woke to a hand at her face. It stroked her hair, felt the skin of her cheeks and forehead as if checking for fever. Pulled her out of the bare chasm she would gladly have remained in forever if it meant not returning to the world that took and took from her without regard, without mercy. She felt herself turn away, as she had done a hundred times in the last four days—when Valentina came in to check on her, her son, Niccolò, the many servants who brought in trays of bread and wine and returned to take them away, for the most part, untouched.

But this hand was more insistent. It grasped at her shoulder and shook, refused to let go, to leave her be. She opened her bleary eyes. Took in the black-clad figure sitting next to her on the bed.

Lorenzo.

"Come out of bed, Aurelia."

She didn't answer. He held her body still, but her head turned to gaze out the window at her right. The one Giuliano had pelted with stones.

"Get up."

She knew he deserved the courtesy of her attention, but she could not bring herself to face him. "Why are you here?" she asked.

"Valentina came to get me."

She frowned. "She shouldn't have." She had even sent Paolo away, knowing she was in no fit state. She felt fragile and thin, as if the simplest thing would set her to breaking, the ensuing pieces so small and shattered there would be no hope of ever being put back together again.

He said nothing, but she heard him opening the door to her bedroom and calling to one of the servants to bring up a tray. Aurelia protested in her mind, only; she did not have the fight left to speak. It had all gone when she decided not to run back into the Duomo that day, to walk away while her other family was massacred before the holy altar.

When the food came, Lorenzo shuffled about the room, clearing space on her writing desk, pulling up a pair of chairs. Inhaling gruffly. "Get up, Aurelia. Don't make me ask again." It was the edge of desperation in his voice that moved her. The rage. The need for this one thing to go his way.

She rose and took the chair he offered, and he kept her company while she ate—a little bread, a few sips of wine, and only for his benefit. She watched as he let his head hang. "My brother was buried today.”

She should feel guilty about missing the funeral, but she didn’t. She could never have borne it, could not have stood by while all his vibrancy, all his life was reduced to a Requiem Mass, the words overused and meaningless, offering no real comfort. She preferred to think of him out in her garden leaning over to whisper in Simonetta’s ear. Something ridiculous to make her laugh.

He went on: "I suppose this makes you even." He meant because of the burials Giuliano had missed, all the times he had disappointed her. But the truth was she understood him, now, when he was too gone for it to matter. She wished she could tell him she forgave him. That none of it mattered, that he’d been right from the start—hang it all, and let the pointless ritual burn.

“No.” She shook her head, spoke fiercely. On this she would not bend. “No, we will never be even.” He owed her so much more—he had promised. Had promised her son, his mother, had promised Simonetta and his family. _I will see you tomorrow_ , he said, and neither of them had known it would be the last time, that there would be no tomorrows for him after that.

She never knew despair could feel so much like anger. But Lorenzo did. He looked her in the eye and she knew that he knew. That he felt it, just as she did, and that it was why he had come, on this day of all days, after saying goodbye to his brother. “The men who killed him are dead.”

She figured as much, had known it would could end in no other way when Filippo told them about the angry mob out for Pazzi blood. _They took to fleeing, but they will not get far, not with the city gates closed._ He had rubbed a hand down his threadbare face and said, “I have never been so ashamed to be Florentine.”

It was too awful, too horrible a thing to believe. To be true. That Francesco had plotted… the father of her goddaughters, the cousin she had wanted to love as a brother… But had she not seen it with her own eyes?

_This is no mere assassination, this is a coup._

They had miscalculated the danger—all of them. The signs were there: the trips to Rome, Salviati traveling with the cardinal. Even Galeazzo Sforza’s killing had been a warning, a harbinger of things to come. So many warnings… so many missed opportunities, not only for them to see, but for Francesco to turn back, to go a different way. “So be it,” she said, with finality. He chose his own fate, took the possibility of victory along with the chance of defeat. Aurelia could not find it in herself to hate her cousin, but the love she had borne him once was tainted with the horror of everything he’d done. Everything he allowed Jacopo to make him do.

As for the rest of it, she would honor her duty. Had sent her brothers to take Novella and the girls to safety until arrangements could be made. Soon, they would leave Florence alongside Bianca and Guglielmo, never to set foot in the city again.

It was for the best. This place was turning into cursed ground.

"I don’t think I was a very good brother.” She looked back at Lorenzo. This time, the loathing on his face was not for Giuliano’s assassins but for himself. The regret. The shame. She wanted to stop him, but he looked so far away as he kept going, confessing his failures, needing to make sense of the way everything turned out. Needing to take part of the blame. “I never listened to him. Not when he tried to warn me about Sixtus, not all the times he tried to tell me he was unhappy… I should have done better by him—I should have _been_ better. But it is too late. I am always too late…” He dropped his head into his hands, a posture so defeated it made her fearful. _No—no, I can’t lose you, too._

Aurelia came off her chair and dropped to her knees. "It wasn't your fault. Lorenzo—look at me—it wasn't your fault." _We failed him. We were wrong, but we all loved him._ She lifted his face to hers, looked into his guilty, haunted eyes, wondered what to do that would make him believe. When she kissed his cheek, she clung to his long exhale like a lifeline. _Yes, come back. Stay._ She did it again, and again, kissed the other side, along his jaw, cradled his face in her hands and whispered those same words: "It wasn't your fault."

Lorenzo had kept so still as she kissed him, but now his hands moved to her arms, making her heart pound with the question of whether he meant to push her away, but he didn’t. He tilted his face at the last minute to capture her mouth. There was no hesitation on his lips, just hunger and desperation and an old longing. A newer one, too: to forget.

She had almost lost him—had believed, for a few terrible hours, that she would never see him again, would never hear the sound of his voice, never feel the touch of his hands. But Lorenzo was alive. He was here and solid and real. _Thank God_ , she thought, _thank God_ , and then he drew her into his lap the way he did that day at the villa, held her close as she dug her fingers into his hair. The rise and fall of his chest was fast and urgent, his breath hot on the side of her neck, the line of her throat, his teeth scraping along her collarbone as he tugged her dressing gown off her shoulders, and though a voice in her head told her to stop and think—they were grieving, he was married, it would only hurt more not to have him—one just as insistent shoved it away: _He was always mine._

She tugged his head up and claimed another kiss. At this point, she had them all counted—the ledger open to the page where she recorded all the times she wanted to kiss him, but didn’t—and it seemed Lorenzo did as well, with the way he scooped her into his arms and carried her to bed. They were moving beyond logic, beyond reason, every fleeting touch of the last seven years converging into this one moment, and now here they were, their fingers competing to remove his black doublet and the white linen shirt he wore beneath. The weight of him pressing into her as his hand wandered up the skirt of her chemise, gathering the fabric and bringing it up over her head.

She should be nervous, Aurelia thought, to have Lorenzo’s gaze sweeping over her, but she wasn't. He had already seen everything—doubt, grief, joy, rage, fear—and never once looked away. _He was always mine_ , but then, she was always his.

She raised her hand up to his face, felt the curve of his cheek, the hollows, the unshaven stubble of his beard. Lorenzo grasped her wrist and placed a searing kiss on her palm.

For one hazy moment, she wondered what would have become of them if he’d kissed her all those years before. If he had walked her right up to his parents, her hand in his, and told them he wished to marry her. Would this be just another day, a moment alone, stolen from a myriad tasks and responsibilities—the Priori, the bank, their children, her letters, the demands of their families—all waiting for their return outside the bedroom door? She wanted to imagine it that way.

That Giuliano would be there, too, as he had wanted to be, with Simonetta at his side.

What if that was the truth she believed?

“Just this once,” she said aloud.

And Lorenzo nodded, understanding. Pressed his head to hers as he gave the words back and sealed them with a kiss. “Just this once.”


	7. Part 7: Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sixtus takes his revenge, and Aurelia grapples with her conscience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As recompense for the lateness, I offer part one of this two-parter situation which is 90% Lorenzo, 10% Tommaso, so you are contractually obligated to forgive me. Part 8 will wrap up this storyline, and after that, I think—think!—we’ll still be poised for a conclusion with Part 10. (I really don’t want to end this fic on an odd number. Next time we do this, friends, please yell at me to do better at outlining!!)

_Now_

Florence was celebrating. The clouds of siege, famine, and war had finally been blown away by Lorenzo’s return from Naples and, in their relief, the people gave themselves over to gratitude to the one they called _Il Magnifico_ : his latest feat of diplomacy but further proof that the name they bestowed was well-earned. Once again a Medici had saved his city from ruin, and they rewarded him with a loyalty that had only grown since the failed coup of the Pazzi.

Aurelia knew there would be hell to pay for what she’d done, but from the safety of Palazzo d'Affini, with strands of joyful shouting and laughter coming in through the open windows, she couldn’t bring herself to fear Filippo’s wrath. She was so beyond his influence now, and if her time in Ferrante’s domain taught her anything, it was that she must keep to her course, undaunted, and gather even further speed. She refused to be walled in like Duchess Ippolita, like Bona or Simonetta. _There is no freedom in marriage_ , neither was widowhood a guarantee, but she would take advantage while she could. And she’d done a good thing. Very few would ever know, but she didn’t need her name chanted in the streets; she only needed her son to be safe.

“Mother, might I come with you next time you are in Naples?” They were in the upper loggia watching the proceedings below. All she told Paolo before leaving was that she needed to go away, urgently, to salvage an important Levantine contract. In his child’s mind, she had gone somewhere new and exciting without him and he did not wish to be left out of future adventures. _If only he knew…_

It was a miracle that she and Lorenzo were home at all, not languishing in one of King Ferrante’s infamous dungeon cells, and she would prefer not having to call on Saint Anthony for some time to come. _I am quite done with Naples for the time being, thank you._ But she could not tell him that, so she replied, “Well, I don’t know when that would be, darling, but how would you like to see Ferrara instead?”

His eyes went wide. “That’s where aunt Marcella lives!”

“Yes, and your cousin, Eva. Shall I arrange it?” She knelt down, elbows on her knees to look into his dazzled green eyes. Strange, but he seemed bigger now than when she’d left—older, though only a few weeks had passed. They had never been apart before, not in all his eleven years, and now that she was back, it was to find one of his eye-teeth missing. Something had changed in her absence; she found she didn’t like the idea of leaving him behind, of him altering when she wasn’t looking.

Once spoken, the idea of Ferrara was as good as settled. Paolo whooped and clapped his hands and cried, “Wait ‘til I tell Piero! He’s never been anywhere but the country, he’ll be so jealous!” His exuberance made her laugh. Why should he not travel? Why shouldn’t they both?

The Affini did business all over the peninsula; if he could develop a mind for the running of it—a sense of the largeness of the world—early on, then all the better. She wanted him to have it all: adventure, knowledge, happiness, love.

From behind them came a servant, not Valentina; she had given her faithful maid the day off to recover from their journey. Giosetta was a slip of a thing from Lucca, barely out of girlhood, but eager to make a life for herself and her widowed mother, a laundress who claimed to light a candle for Paolo and Aurelia every night. “Madonna, you have company.”

She sent Paolo away, his little red head brimming with dreams of travel, and went down, fully expecting to spar with a thunderous Filippo in the reception room. But it was not her brother whom she found when she stepped through the threshold. At the sound of her entrance, Lucrezia de’ Medici turned, sober-faced and weary, an ominous picture in her mourner’s black, her long veil. Even in grief, her gaze was as sharp as ever. All at once, Aurelia felt uneasy.

Lucrezia didn’t. Ever the pragmatist, she gave a martial nod at the sight of her and said, “Good, you’re here. We need to talk about Lorenzo.”

* * *

_Then_

The light changed upon the walls and through the paned glass of her bedroom windows. They watched it go from blinding gold to amber to blushest pink. She could look at it forever; felt, perhaps, that she had. A silence like gossamer hung in the air. It may as well have been a different world, for all the thought she gave to life beyond the door. The spell was cast the moment he kissed her, said the words— _just this once_ —and it would not be broken until he left. Until he rose and dressed and turned the doorknob, pulled the door behind him as he returned back to his life. His wife. His brother, buried.

Aurelia did not know what would become of her after that, after the thud that signaled the end. She had her own affairs to look after—her family, her son, a business, letters to write, bonds to build. But she didn’t know how she would feel in the silence, on her own, with nothing but the memory of this strange, removed day to sustain her.

How could she be certain that it actually happened, that it hadn’t been a grief-fueled dream? _And if it is?_ she thought. _Then let it be a dream._ For once, she was not the worrier Giuliano claimed her to be; for once, she let her instincts lead.

"Do you remember the summer before you left?” Lorenzo had his arm around her, her head on his shoulder, and she liked that she could feel the intake of his breath before he spoke. At the quirk of her lips, he glanced down, and asked, “What is it?” He was smiling curiously, but there was a little furrow between his brows she would reach up and smooth, if she wasn’t too comfortable to move.

“Oh, nothing,” she replied. “It’s just—briefly, I considered lying. ‘Me? What summer? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about!'” He chuckled at that. There was no point in concealment, not anymore, so she admitted, “Of course I remember. It was all I could think about for a time.”

“For a time.”

As she said her wedding vows, as he shook hands with her husband, on the road to Genoa, the months away, the time, the distance adding up to something she would gladly have traded if she’d known how heavy it would be. “I think about it still.”

He brushed the hair from her face, and she saw his eyes flicker from her eyes to her mouth and back again. Felt the inhale that came before the words: “I should have kissed you then.“

"But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.”

As if to atone, he leaned down, his hand cradling the back of her head, and pressed his lips to hers. Her careful ledger was long forgotten; he’d kissed her more times than she could count and she still wasn’t satisfied. Would never be, for that matter.

So many times, the desire for him had felt like a wide, endless chasm, a straight drop into something that could never be contained. But today, her hunger was less unknown. It was purposeful, like his fingers dancing along her spine, the hand she slid with a deliberate slowness up the plains of his chest to play at his chin as she changed the angle of their kiss, deepened it, coaxing a sound at the back of his throat that made her whole body tingle.

The hand at her back lowered, pressed down, pressed her closer, and when his hips moved up to meet hers and that sound rumbled through him again, she caught it into her mouth and—she couldn’t help it—she laughed, unabashed in her triumph, in the irrevocable knowledge that, if she’d stood at the top of the cliff looking down, then so had he.

She felt Lorenzo shake his head underneath her, the smile, the answering laugh against her lips, but he didn’t stop. He redoubled his efforts until they were both too breathless to kiss, until he had coaxed a few sounds of his own from her, his hand covering her mouth as she came undone, his blue eyes dancing like the summer sea as she did.

Later, when he pressed his lips to her temple, a gesture so sweet it was almost chaste except for the fact that they were both unclothed in her bed and still joined together, she very nearly said it: the three words she had never allowed herself to say, not even in her private thoughts.

_I love you._

If she did, if she said it but once, she knew she would never stop. _I love you, I love you, I love you…_

The force of it left her breathless. Embarrassingly, she felt her eyes fill, and the very last thing she wanted to do was cry—not here, not today in this place where time had slowed just for them. But she knew he saw it, knew he heard the words even when she failed to give them voice. He had always been able to read her.

“Aurelia…” She was glad that he stopped at that. Some things were better left unsaid.

* * *

After the attack in the Duomo, Filippo began a habit of gathering the family every now and then, and although Aurelia was not in the mood for company on this particular evening, she wasn’t about to slight his attempts at fraternal feeling. Filippo may still be overbearing, but he had not threatened her with the convent in a while, and that was something, at least.

The news of the day: Florence’s excommunication, a turn of events they should have all expected considering Bishop Salviati’s execution and Cardinal Raffaele’s being kept hostage at Lorenzo’s pleasure. Both sides were implacable in their fury. Neither would yield, and in the meantime, the city paid the price.

To Aurelia’s surprise, Filippo was not of a mind with Spinelli and Ardinghelli, who accused Lorenzo of selfish pride and proposed peace with Sixtus at any cost. There was a right way of doing things and there was a wrong one; why should Florence be punished when its people had done nothing wrong?

She had to admit, he was being shockingly logical about the situation, though she wondered how well that logic would hold if he knew what she and Lorenzo had done.

 _He thinks it already_ , she reasoned. Except, before, if he’d asked, she would have been able to throw the accusation back in his face. Now she was an adulteress. It mattered not that she hadn’t been alone with him in months—Lorenzo de’ Medici still occupied her thoughts, and her mind wandered often to the brush of his hands, the heat of his breath on her neck. The slow drag of his mouth on her hips.

She needn’t have worried about forgetting; Aurelia should have been more concerned about how often she remembered.

“Madonna Peruzzi, Tommaso—have you met my sister, Aurelia?” Filippo’s voice snapped her back to the present. She knew Ginevra’s aunt and cousin had been invited but they were unknown to her, and the pair following her brother into the dining room were so physically different from the Lanfredini as to signify night and day.

The woman was older than Antonella, her face lined, but her eyes were bright with intelligence and—dare she say it—a bit of mischief. She surprised Aurelia by striding forward and linking their arms together. “Madonna Valori, a genuine pleasure. Michelina Risaliti sings your praises, which, I must say, is a miracle in light of what an incorrigible viper that woman is…”

“Mother!”

She waved a hand, unconcerned. “Well, it is true, and I’m allowed to say it. Don’t let me shock you, dear, Michelina and I have known each other all our lives. She _adores_ being called all sorts of names; it makes her feel accomplished.”

Behind them, her son reddened, his hand rising to rub at the back of his neck. He had a young face, but she knew he was a banker and had recently taken his father’s seat on the Priori. Both he and Madonna Peruzzi were golden-haired, with eyes like cobalt. Aurelia pressed her lips together, not knowing if she ought to smile but very much wanting to. She decided she liked the older woman, and was glad when she insisted on disregarding Alessandra’s seating arrangements to sit next to her at dinner.

Across from her, Tommaso ducked his head and did his best to look apologetic. It was here that the resemblance between him and Ginevra became uncanny: the way they focused on their plates and hunched lower into their chairs as their mothers went head to head—minor swipes at first, becoming more and more pointed as the evening progressed. But no one expected the tension that came with the dessert course, when conversation turned, naturally, to the Pope.

“Dreadful, this business with Sixtus. Locked churches, no baptisms… Are we all to live like heathens now?” Lucetta—as Madonna Peruzzi urged Aurelia to call her—raised her wineglass to her lips and addressed the table with an arched brow.

At the other end, her sister, Antonella sniffed. “Well, who gave Lorenzo de’ Medici the right to stand between us and God? I say, beg the Pope’s forgiveness and let’s be done with the whole disgraceful business!”

Next to her, a mortified Ginevra began her slow, hunching slide; Niccolò’s idea of help was to pile more candied pear onto her plate while Filippo, heedless of his wife’s subtle touch at his arm, took up the argument. The deep baritone of his voice carried easily across the table. “I beg your pardon, Madonna Lanfredini, but it is not Lorenzo who has excommunicated Florence. It is the Pope.”

“You cannot mean to say that you agree with him! Lucetta is right—are we to live like godless people until he decides he’s had his fill of revenge?”

“Sister, do not put words in my mouth,” came Lucetta’s whip-sharp retort. “My meaning was not your own. To be sure, our present situation is lamentable, but for the Pope to demand an apology from the man whose brother he had murdered is, quite frankly, uproarious.”

“And do we know for certain the Holy Father did such a thing?”

Up to this point, Aurelia’s interest in the conversation had been limited to observation—marking the differences between the sisters, the way Alessandra looked ahead and tried to ignore that her pleasant dinner party had been set upon by a couple of pecking hens and her husband’s strong opinions—but the implication that Sixtus was innocent in the conspiracy sent her blood boiling. She felt her breath quicken and she set her fork down, not trusting her hands to keep steady as Ginevra tried to reason with her pinch-faced, raven-haired mother.

“If Sixtus had nothing to do with it, then why was there a Papal Army waiting outside the gates on the very day of the coup? And Cardinal Raffaele’s arrival—”

“Exactly! If it was planned, then why would Sixtus endanger his own nephew?”

“Cardinal Riario was never in any danger, Madonna,” argued Filippo. “He was wholly ignorant of the plot; it is why he is a respected hostage and not a prisoner.”

“But what right does Lorenzo de’ Medici have to hold a holy man hostage?”

“The same right the Pope believes he has to facilitate murder, madam.” Seven startled heads turned to look at Aurelia. Her voice was dead-even, furious and cold. If Sixtus wasn’t the heir to St. Peter, she would want his image drawn on the Bargello. How dare Antonella defend him when she had lost nothing? She was so angry her hands trembled in her lap. Her pulse whooshed violently in her ears.

Antonella’s condemnatory reply: “That is very close to blasphemy, girl.”

 _Girl_ —the word that always sent her bristling.

“My nine-year-old son went into Easter Mass to worship God and was forced to watch his godfather being stabbed in the back—an act carried out with _the Pope_ ’s blessing. What is blasphemy to you, Madonna Lanfredini?”

A thick silence followed. Niccolò let out a nervous laugh that fell wrong and flat given the circumstances, but it did manage to break the standoff, to make Antonella’s affronted eyes return to her plate. “I think we’re all getting a bit ahead of ourselves, here.”

Tommaso cleared his throat. “I agree. These are Priori matters and, for now, at least, we are in agreement with Lorenzo about the conditions for peace. If at some point the situation merits change, then… so be it. But we need not quarrel about it over dinner.”

Filippo nodded, slapped his palm twice against the table. “Well said, Peruzzi. No doubt, we do well with you on the council.”

“Thank you, friend. I will do my best.”

After the table was cleared, Antonella retreated to a quiet corner to air her grievances to her daughter. Alessandra and Lucetta gave them a wide berth, as did the men, who stood by the fire and discussed the day’s Priori meeting. Aurelia took a chair by the window. She needed the time alone and the chilly cold of autumn helped to clear her head.

Now that some time had passed, she felt foolish for reacting as she did. It accomplished nothing. Antonella’s mind had not been swayed, and all she’d done was betray her hand. Reveal her anger, her pain. She knew from the shifty-eyed way everyone reacted that they noticed and were made uncomfortable by her grief. After all, she was not a Medici—why did she care so much about their fate?

How could any of them know how much Giuliano meant to her? How she still caught herself thinking about him as if he were alive?

She looked up. Tommaso Peruzzi approached with a kind smile, no trace of pity, only a hint of embarrassment for the quarrel at dinner. He held up a hand, pitched his voice so as not to be heard by the others. “Madonna, I don’t mean to disturb. I only meant to say—please—allow me to apologize for my aunt. I am sorry if she upset you.”

 _Let the harridan apologize for herself._ The thought was immediate, but even as it arose Aurelia knew it wasn’t fair. Ginevra’s mother could be prickly, but she was not a generally unpleasant woman, and her defense of Sixtus could be explained by the gratitude she felt for the church. How much she relied on it for comfort after the death of her husband.

She should have held her tongue, of course, but Aurelia accepted that her reaction could have been more temperate. She sighed, relenting. “Antonella speaks nothing Ardinghelli has not said a dozen times before. But you were right to change the subject. Thank you.”

Discreetly, he cast a look at Lucetta over his shoulder, another at his aunt. “I cannot promise you will ever grow used to their squabbles—God knows I myself can’t understand the appeal of being so at odds with your own kin—but it helps to come prepared… or so my cousin and I keep telling ourselves.”

He had a peculiar bearing for an heir. He was willing to take responsibility for the mistakes of his family, but was uneasy drawing attention to himself. And he was painfully polite in a way that bordered on the self-deprecating. _Gentle_ , she wanted to say, but most men disliked being described in such terms. “How long have you been in Florence, Messer Peruzzi?”

“I returned shortly before my father’s death. That is three months gone now. Before that, I was at the Ufficio di San Giorgio.”

“You were in Genoa?”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting at the sound of her surprise. “Are you familiar with the region?”

“I lived there for two years, while I was married.”

His smile widened and he took the seat next to hers, angling it so that it faced her. “Imagine that! We may have crossed paths and never known.”

Aurelia smiled back, but she doubted it. Tommaso Peruzzi couldn’t be more than eighteen.

It was common practice for the sons of merchants and bankers to be sent away to learn the family trade, and then to be recalled when the time came for them to take their rightful place. The Bank of St. George was one of the oldest, most reputable institutions in the world. It made sense that he would go to Genoa—just as the time away from Florence explained his easy manner, the lack of pretense. _It will have to go out of him_ , she thought with some regret.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asked.

She could have lied out of courtesy—she had no idea whether his feelings for their former home were more charitable than hers—but his face was so open, his eyes so sincere that she admitted, “Not in particular. And you?”

Unwittingly, she’d thrown him into a similar dilemma. His eyes flickered as he considered an innocuous response. The length of his pause was nothing out of the ordinary, but within that space she watched him arrive at and reject various possibilities. It wasn’t mere diffidence of character, then; he was strategic, deliberate in the way he dealt with others. “Far be it from me to turn down a bit of sea air, Madonna, but I was born Florentine. Such a thing cannot be easily forgotten.”

His answer made her smile. “That was very diplomatic, messer, I congratulate you.”

“Oh no, please, call me Tommaso,” he said. There was a sheepishness to his expression, as if he knew she’d read him somehow. He explained, “I’m afraid I do not share my mother’s easy bluntness, but I do hope I am never dishonest.”

He was so wide-eyed and new—she was barely twenty-five, but some days Aurelia awoke feeling old, and she’d never been half as kind to start with. How many friends would Tommaso Peruzzi lose in seven years, how many illusions?

The thought distressed her for a reason she could not explain. Perhaps it was the image of him being played a fool by others, of his obvious goodness being taken advantage of or used. She said, “You mustn’t let that keep you from speaking up in the Priori. They could do with a bit of honesty and good sense.”

“It is not reluctance on my part, Madonna, but so many of the men on the council have served the city far longer than I. I mean to learn and listen first. To earn my place.” She must have been too slow in shuttering her reaction because his smile flattened a bit. “You think it foolish?”

“No! No, no—not foolish,” she assured. “Unexpectedly optimistic…?” He had been so nice, and here she was making him feel terrible.

But then Tommaso laughed, a sound that made his mother’s head turn as he said, “And here you were calling me diplomatic!”

“You think if you don’t step on their toes that they’ll thank you for it, but they won’t.” He frowned when he saw how serious she was, but he listened, gave her his full attention. _I mean to learn and listen first._ Yes, he seemed the kind who knew how, so Aurelia went on and shared a truth it had taken her years to learn. “They will never make room for you because it is in their best interest for you to fade into the background. To keep you quiet and deferent, in awe of their history, their influence, their power. Take a page out of your mother’s book—speak your mind every now and then, be a voice of reason, let them know you won’t be bought or ignored— _that_ is the way to make them respect you.”

He was quiet at first, his eyes flickering here and there in that thoughtful way as he considered her words. After a while, he looked at her with unveiled curiosity and said, “I am beginning to think everything Madonna Risaliti says about you is true.”

She felt her lips quirk. “I would ask, but I think I’d rather not know.”

* * *

 _There is a boy…_ The note came the next day, shortly after noon, the familiar, messy scrawl undeniably Botticelli’s. Parts of the story it told were unbelievable: orphan—his mother murdered—Riario—Giuliano’s son. Yet some of the details—the timing, the name, the identity of the mother—all leant credence to the unbelievable. Still, it was such an unexpected occurrence, on the heels of a year full of unexpected occurrences, that her first reaction was doubt… but that was soon swept away by annoyance.

It was a good thing Clarice spent most of her time at San Marco these days, because she wasn’t sure she could have stopped herself from storming into Lorenzo’s study at Palazzo Medici and closing the door with a resounding bang. “When were you going to tell me about Giulio?”

At the commotion of her entrance he glanced up once, then returned his attention to the papers on his desk. Aurelia wanted to sweep them all away; Sixtus could be at the gates and it still wouldn’t be as important as Giuliano’s son!

Lorenzo didn’t think so. The evenness of his voice, the hint of _I am busy, can you please go away?_ fed her frustration further. As if it were the most obvious thing in the world and she really should have thought of it herself, he asked, “Why would I tell you such a thing before confirming the boy’s identity?”

Standing over his desk, she ground out the query: “Fioretta Gorini is his mother?“

A lazy wave was all the response she got. She assumed it was a confirmation.

"Very well, then. I knew Fioretta. She wouldn’t lie.”

“She could have been mistaken.”

“Oh, yes, Lorenzo, because women tend not to remember when men have bedded them!” She flung the comment between them without thought, but the moment it landed she knew how it must sound, wanted desperately to reel it back and rephrase— _that was_ not _what I meant_ —so, of course, that was the precise moment he chose to look up. His blue eyes bore into hers. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss him or slap him across the face. Both urges seemed to exist simultaneously these days.

Aurelia sensed, from the moment he rose from her bed and began to dress, that he was different. With every piece of clothing he fastened, the day they spent together was folded up neatly and packed away, relegated to memory—and she helped him do it, too, her fingers fixing the collar of his doublet, working down to pull the buttons through their loops. Aurelia had chosen to be with him; she needed to choose to let him go if she wanted to withstand his leaving. But it wasn’t just her that Lorenzo locked away. Or, better said, it was not just duty that he donned along with his clothes.

He used to be so easy to make smile. Now his eyes seemed deeper, colder. Harder to reach. Sandro mentioned that in his note, too. _I hardly know him these days…_ Well she wouldn’t give him up for lost—not her. She knew him far too well. Loved him, though she’d never say it. He was hers, and she would not let Sixtus take him.

She came around the desk and sat at his elbow, ignored the tic of irritation in his jaw when she did. “You look terrible.” The exhausted eyes, the sallow cast of his skin beneath the beard he had grown. His hair was longer, too. It curled at the nape of his neck. She asked, “When was the last time you slept through the night?”

“I don’t need sleep, I need the men who murdered my brother dead.”

She arched a brow, pursing her lips at the blatant display of illogic. “So you’re planning on killing the Pope, then?”

“I won’t let him take Florence.”

“Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s making you out to be a villain—the excommunication? It was so you would take the fall before your people. Don’t make his job any easier by destroying yourself. Lorenzo—you have never lacked in ideas, but you’ve always claimed far more than your share of the load.”

“Not more.“ He was determined. Unmovable. "This is my responsibility.”

“To save the entire city? From a man who cannot be reasoned with?”

“If it comes to that!” Lorenzo raised his voice, so brittle she could hear the cracks. His rage lingered in the room. He lowered his head into his hands. Hesitantly, she reached out and laid a hand on his back, kept it there, not to soothe—he was beyond that, she knew—but to let him know she was there. And because the rise and fall of his breath beneath her palm was reassuring to her. He said, “I know what to do about the excommunication. I can fix it— _I can fix it_ —but if I do, there will be no going back. It will mean war.”

“We are at war already. You and I both know you were never going to make peace with Sixtus. And he was never going to make peace with you.” He turned to face her. With her sitting on the desktop, Lorenzo had to raise his head to look at her. Now that his mind was spoken his eyes were less inscrutable, his face more familiar. Aurelia stroked at the scruff of his beard, moved her hand to push the soft curls of his hair away from his face. His tired eyes fluttered at the action; she heard him breathe out through his lips.

She wasn’t angry with him anymore, but she did still want to kiss him. She heard the longing in her voice when she said, “Do what you must, Lorenzo. Shut out the world if you have to, but don’t do it to me.”

His gaze softened, and she had no words for the relief she felt. _He is still here. I still have him._ His hands came around her, on either side of her hips, and Aurelia marveled once again at how his nearness worked upon her. Her breath hitching as he lowered his head, forehead pressed against her middle like a supplicant. He spoke the fabric of her gown. “Tell me I am doing the right thing.”

 _War_. Such a small word for such a catastrophic deed. The Papal Army was no trifle, and the Holy See was still the Holy See. But she believed in what she’d told him: war was inevitable. And yet he was hesitant to light the belligerent flame—as he should be.

If she told him what he needed to hear, she would be lighting it with him. No one else would know, but the awareness of it would stay with her. She recalled how affected Giuliano was after Volterra. _There is blood on my hands_ , he told her once. And Lorenzo’s hands—the ones gripping her side—were already blood-stained. He’d executed the Pazzi without a trial; no one mentioned it at the time, but they did now, with sentiment turning against him.

Lorenzo no longer prayed to God but he still wanted absolution. And he wanted it from her. There was a headiness to the knowledge; no wonder Lucrezia Donati fought so hard not to lose him. For a man like Lorenzo de’ Medici to put himself in her hands, to give her his ear, to have his trust…

Was it selfishness that made her lift his head? Greed for the feel of his hands on her, on a day and in a space that was not part of their original deal? Was it half-honest, half-sin? _Tell me I am doing the right thing._

She could not in good conscience go that far, but she did give him this: “It is the only thing.”

* * *

Brutal winter turned to brutal spring. As if the Papal Army wasn’t enough to contend with, Sixtus called upon his old ally, Naples, to fight against their sorely undermanned forces. Lorenzo was often away, bringing reports back from their sell-sword general, Guiscardi, and trying to keep the men’s morale from plummeting. Even so, a sort of dance had begun between him and Aurelia after what happened in his study, a reel of truths and deceptions that left her spinning for weeks, hours, days after she’d seen him last.

She didn’t fool herself into thinking they acted honorably, that just because she didn’t lie with him it made the brush of his hand under the table any more innocent. The embraces in closed rooms, the way he didn’t kiss her mouth, but kissed other places in a manner entirely devoid of chastity. If all she felt for Lorenzo was lust, she could have resisted that, but it was closeness to him that she craved most: his confidence, how he told her things he didn’t tell another living soul.

It was Aurelia’s idea not to kiss him, knowing, as she did, how much she wanted to—and she steadfastly refused to be his mistress. These rules kept the dance in line, kept her able to smile at both their families and pretend nothing had changed.

Sandro warned: “It is a dangerous game you play, Aurelia.”

She glared at his latest creation, an illustration of Dante’s nine circles of Hell. Ironic how he preferred this to the dead men of the Bargello. "It is not a game to me.”

"I know,” said the painter. “That’s what makes it dangerous.”

The worst part was she knew he was right. If it ever got out, Clarice would be devastated. Their children played together, and she had confided in Aurelia about Lorenzo’s affair with Madonna Ardinghelli. They were not friends, but she was allowed into her home, was treated as a member of her family.

And Filippo would be furious. _The name of this family falls to me._ It would be an affront to his dignity, and God knew Filippo di Bartolomeo Valori could withstand many things, but never that. Lorenzo would never be forgiven.

No one has to know. That was the line that got Aurelia through. The details were private, shared only between the two of them— _and why shouldn’t we have this one thing_ , she thought, _when we have been denied so many others?_

“Bad meeting, I presume?” She smiled as Lorenzo wrapped his arms around her, back pressed against the strong line of his chest. She’d been sorting through her letters when he entered; had known it was him because he was the only one who didn’t knock before doing so. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the door to her study was closed and remembered, with inward amusement, how Giuliano had said, _There’s a lot you could get up to in a study._ Pity they never really got up to anything.

 _Would he be happy for us?_ she wondered. Or would he tell her, like Sandro, that she was walking herself into a trap?

Lorenzo frowned into her neck and she knew she’d guessed right. Guiscardi badly needed more men if he was to continue holding the line, but the Priori were being less cooperative lately. His arms tightened around her. “Ardinghelli blocked the motion.”

She rolled her eyes, muttered, “Of course he did.” The man decided to grow a spine in his middle age and it was to be a constant thorn in Lorenzo’s side.

“Your Peruzzi spoke well today.”

“Mm. I’m glad you are taking an interest in him. He is a good man. What will you do about Guiscardi?”

“I’ve been thinking…”

“Always a good sign. Or a bad one,” she grinned, “who can say with you?” Aurelia spun in his arms to rest her palms flat on his chest. He must have gone home and changed, because he was wearing a clean shirt and doublet. She still didn’t know what to make of the beards he and Sandro insisted on sporting these days, but she was growing used to the unruly curls. _And it’s nice to look at him._ To be able to angle his face to the light and make sure he hadn’t taken injury. To read his expression and know whether she ought to be serious. Whether he wanted her playful.

 _You are lying to yourself_. Stop it—her inner voice was starting to sound like Botticelli, damn him and his Inferno!

Lorenzo’s touch danced along her elbows, up her wrists to cover her hands. “What if I left?”

She stared. “ _If you left the Priori?_ ”

He had to be joking—but no, he was serious as he peered into her face to gauge her reaction. She looked away, trying to ponder what a Priori without the Medici would even look like after four generations. They may as well kiss the Pope’s ring now, if Spinelli and Ardinghelli were all they had to look forward to. She shook her head. “No, I know you are frustrated, but if you left now the people would lose confidence in their leadership. You’d be causing a panic.”

“And if there were a different council in its place?”

“But that is—” Aurelia stopped. _Not impossible_ , not with a Council of Ten.

She looked to him and he nodded, confirming. The Ten had never been convened in their lifetimes; to attempt it now could appear a tyrant’s move and play right into Sixtus’s hands. “You would be ending the Republic.”

“No.” He gripped her hands. “No, not ending it—suspending it, until the war is won.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I want Florence free. Do you disapprove?” Now was really not the time to notice his gaze straying to her mouth.

So many days she’d seen Lorenzo at the end of his rope, caged in by his own limitations, the ones imposed on him by the other men of the Restricted Council. Aurelia wasn’t naïve; she knew his voice carried far more weight than any other in Florence, that his family had won that kind of power through means more grey than white. But she didn’t want his enemies exploiting the perception of such a move, didn’t want him maligned by those whose authority he’d be taking away.

She frowned. “Does it matter if I do?“

“You know it matters to me. It’s not that I thought war with Rome would be easy, but we didn’t count on Naples, or this weather, or for our alliances to go up in smoke…” Venice—Milan—all bogged down with threats of their own, all unwilling or unable to come to their aid. The work of years… Had it all been for nothing?

"I fear Bona will not make it through the year as regent. Ludovico is relentless.”

“So is Alfonso.”

Grudgingly, “We need the Ten.” She didn’t want to say it. The idea of him taking on so much perturbed her—after all, the greater the power, the greater the target, and he was already so tired. “When do you resign?” she asked on a sigh.

“Tomorrow.”

“I suppose I’ll know by the sound of angry shouting in the street.” His lips ticked up; one of these days he’d make her fling her no-kissing rule out the window. She cleared her throat. “And have you chosen who will sit?”

“Your brother, for starters.“

"Oh, joy.”

The tick grew into a smile. “Would Peruzzi be inclined?”

“He is young.”

His brow went up. “And seven years makes you so much the elder?”

“He believes in the Republic,” she cautioned. “He may refuse you.”

“Then he is free to do so.” He toyed with the ribbon at the collar of her dress. “I am sending Clarice and the children away, to Pistoia. You should think about leaving to your estate in the country as well.”

Her response was immediate. “Absolutely not.”

“Aurelia…”

“End of discussion! Everyone I love is here.” Another word to linger in the air— _love_ —but she wouldn’t take it back, not this time. Even if she didn’t love him to distraction, she would never think of leaving him.

He shook his head at her. “And if I told you Poliziano is going with them?”

Aurelia pulled out of his grasp, hands on her hips, voice full of outrage as a lopsided smile came to his lips. “ _Excuse me_ , are you poaching my son’s tutor?”

“I do pay him considerably more than you do.”

“You have three children! Besides, Poliziano hates the country. He’ll go mad in a week, you’ll have _ruined_ him—Lorenzo!” He came for her with a slight laugh—a miracle of a sound she clung to in these days of constant worry—and a glimmer in his eyes that reminded her of that perfect afternoon, made more perfect still by memory. His hands came to her face, his forehead on hers. “Lorenzo…”

“I need you.” Her heart thrilled at the words, so close to her true feelings as they were. _You are lying to yourself._ No, it wasn’t a lie. “If things go sideways, I want you to promise you’ll take your son and leave Florence. Go to Marcella’s if you must, but don’t hesitate. Promise me.” She shook her head. “ _Promise me_.”

“I promise.”

He rewarded her with a kiss to the temple that made her shiver. He sensed it, gripped her chin and pressed his lips to the sensitive skin behind her ear. Her hands flew to his shoulders in warning. “Lorenzo…”

“I know, I know…”

“Don’t make this difficult.”

He looped a strand of auburn hair around his finger, whispered, “You first.”

For a moment, Aurelia savored the possibility of crossing the line. She stepped closer until she could feel his chest against hers, his fingers digging greedily at her side. Then she pushed away. _Dangerous_. She’d told Sandro it wasn’t a game, but it felt like one sometimes. She reveled in the way he tracked her movements, as she’d done with his so many times before. _Let him want her, for once_.

A brisk knock at the door. Valentina popped her head in, eyes wide, looking slightly flustered. “Pardon the interruption, but Madonna de’ Medici is here to see you.”

Aurelia’s stomach did a queer flop. Her eyes darted to Lorenzo, who looked uncomfortably off balance. She shouldn’t have pushed him. _Well, how should I have known?!_

Clarice stepped into the room, stared first at her husband, then at Aurelia. “Lorenzo,” she said, “I didn’t know you were here.”

He nodded. “There were some matters to discuss.” A thin excuse to her guilty ears, but she hoped Clarice was used to their discussions enough not to suspect anything more. “Have you finished packing?”

Clarice paused before answering. “Nearly done. I only came because I promised the prior at San Marco I would ask for donations before we left. The funds are beginning to dwindle again.”

“Of course!” Aurelia chimed in. “You can count on me, and I’ll be sure to pass the word along to my sisters-in-law.” Her tone was a little too bright—was she being obvious? And why did she feel like Sandro Botticelli was in his studio right now, knowing exactly what a mess she’d landed herself in, like a bearer of the divine Eye? Again— _stop it!_ She cleared her throat. “I hear you are going away to Pistoia.”

“Yes, but Lucrezia is staying.”

“Oh. Well, I must visit her while you are away, then.”

“I’m sure she’d like that.” Clarice turned to her husband. “Lorenzo, will you walk back, or will you come in the carriage?”

“Go,” she told him before he could answer. “You’ve much to do. Thank you for keeping me apprised.” He nodded and followed Clarice out the door. When the latch clicked she sighed, relief warring with a bitter frustration that left her hollowed out and weary.

* * *

The next week, Guiscardi abandoned his post, sending the entire city into a fervorous panic. Siege was imminent; there was no choice but to fall.

“I go to Naples.” Lorenzo stopped briefly at Palazzo d’Affini to give her the news. It was almost midnight. At her protests, he took her by the shoulders with an urgent grasp and said, “It’s time you made good on your promise. I can make sure you and Paolo make it through the city gates before—”

“What—you cannot go!” she exclaimed. Had the world ceased to make all earthly sense? “If Ferrante takes you prisoner, how will any of us know of your fate?” The man was as notorious as the old Sforza duke for his bloodthirst. Rules of diplomacy did not apply to his kind. Lorenzo would be an enemy, willingly walking into his fortress without guard or reinforcement.

“We are at last resorts. The alliance is what keeps Sixtus strong. I must cut the legs out from under him.” He was trying to reason with her, but all it did was make Aurelia want to lock him into her palace so he couldn’t go through with his delirious plan. What did she care about Sixtus’s legs when Lorenzo could very well lose his head?

“Have the Ten lost their wits?” she demanded.

“Aurelia, there is no time. The longer I tarry, the closer Riario gets. Now, for the love you bore my brother…”

She pushed away from him with the full force of her fear. “Don’t you dare. Giuliano would never leave you in this situation and you know it.” He wouldn’t—he would have gone with Lorenzo rather than let him endanger himself alone. _He would have gone with him._ “I am coming with you.” Even as she blurted out the words, half a plan had begun to form.

Lorenzo was speechless, his mouth agape as if he couldn’t believe what she had said. Neither could she, quite frankly, but she repeated it, lifting her chin and repeating, with conviction, “Yes, I am coming with you to Naples.”

“You speak madness.”

“You _plan_ madness! Hear me out: Eleonora is a friend of mine—”

“Eleonora is a friend of _Marcella’s_. What makes you so certain she’ll vouch for you with her father?”

“Because that is the kind of woman she is! And if all else fails… there is always Ippolita.” She watched him grow still. The image of the stunning Duchess of Calabria came to her mind unbidden. She had hoped never to cross paths with her again, and yet… “She is part of your plan, is she not?” she asked. “You are as sure of her as I am of Ferrante’s daughter. If I go with you, we can double our odds.”

He spun on his heel, vexed by her inconvenient show of bravado. “We cannot be seen to travel together—we are not married!”

 _And whose fault is that?_ she almost snapped. She had half a mind to feel relieved that she wasn’t; he worried her enough as it was, with his plots and his heavy silences. Nevertheless, the possibility—or, impossibility—of such a life was never far from her thoughts. “Who says I am traveling with you?” she asked, innocent-eyed. “I go to Naples on business.”

“In the middle of a war _with Naples_?”

So his skepticism had some merit, but he did say “last resorts.” No matter what, as a woman, she might be treated with a little more courtesy by the Neapolitan king. “Profit is profit. We are a banking city, are we not? And it wouldn’t be a lie. The Affini have interests there—an emergency could arise at any minute.”

He scoffed, “One will if I don’t return you back to Filippo. The story is so transparent it might as well not exist. Can’t you see? Ferrante would see right through you!”

“No, it’s you who doesn’t see!” she exclaimed. “Lorenzo, we did this. You asked me—” _Tell me I am doing the right thing._

“It had nothing to do with you!”

“Yes, it did,” she said. “We do this together. Now, I can go with you, or I can make my own way to Ferrante.”

“God help me…”

“I thought you no longer believed.”

He shot her an exasperated look. “I will regret this,” and muttered something under his breath she couldn’t catch. “We leave tonight—now.”


	8. Part 8: Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly two years after the foiled conspiracy, Aurelia journeys somewhere new, but must pay a high price to preserve her family’s alliance with the Medici.

It would be easier later to make sense of her actions, to ascribe some purpose, some noble meaning to the choice she made that night, but in the moment her reasons were entirely impulsive. She couldn’t let him go—it was the one thing, after all these years, that she had never been able to do, though she knew Lorenzo was right—it was madness. Completely and utterly and undeniably mad, and she felt it as she made her way from the courtyard to the servants’ quarters, the hem of her night rail swishing around her legs.

There was no need to awaken the entire household but someone ought to know the mistress would be away for a time… of finite duration, she hoped.

“You are _what_?” The fog of just-broken sleep must have made her normally polite maid forget herself, because she was blinking up at Aurelia with unconcealed bafflement. A ray of moonlight filtered into the chamber from the small, lone window above her cot bed.

Aurelia groaned. “Valentina, there is little time! Will you take Paolo to his uncle Niccolò in the morning? I will write a note explaining everything.” About the false business emergency, of course—“I am going to King Ferrante’s court to make sure Lorenzo does not become target practice for one of the royal bastards” would do little to inspire calm or confidence.

“And you plan on going alone, madonna? With Messer de’ Medici? But you are an unmarried lady!”

Irritation flared. “An unmarried lady who is also your mistress!” It sounded petulant even to her own ears, but if she heard the same thing pointed out a third she wouldn’t be held responsible for her actions.

Valentina swung her legs over the bed so suddenly that Aurelia had to stumble out of the way. “That’s it—of all the things… Traveling alone— _with a man?_ My mother would turn over in her grave!” These things she muttered seemingly to herself, then she turned to Aurelia and said, with an exasperated air, “Giosetta can take Messer Paolo to your brother’s, but I cannot in good conscience let you go without an attendant—people talk, you know, madonna, even in Naples. And you’ll be needing someone to open up the residence, I assume?” Aurelia faltered. She had not given a single thought to where she would stay and Valentina saw it. Her round eyes went even rounder. “Madonna, you’re certainly not staying in his house while his wife is away!”

Unreasonably, she felt her cheeks warm. “For God’s sake!” she exclaimed, trying to change the subject. “We’re meant to be moving quickly!”

Valentina looked at her dubiously—one final breach in stationary protocol—then bade her out of the room to dress while Aurelia apprised the major-domo of the situation.

The latter exuded far less judgment than her maid, and between the three of them, the women were soon back in the courtyard, dressed, lightly packed, and ready to go. They would meet Lorenzo by the western gate; the less people knew about their simultaneous departures the better.

“Thank you, Signore Alberghi,” she said from atop her horse.

The old steward nodded dutifully. Most in his position would balk at the idea of answering to a woman, but he prided himself in not being the sort of man to balk at anything. He said, “I will arrange for the speedy delivery of your letters, madonna, and send word to your agent in Naples that he may be ready for your arrival.” Then he ordered the gates open, the horses cantered forward, and they were off into the quiet, inky black.

* * *

Valentina had never been on a ship. In Genoa, she had seen the sea, smelled the salt in the air, but the discombobulating roll of waves beneath her feet was something new and unpleasant. As a result, she spent most of their journey belowdecks, and nothing Aurelia could say about fresh air being better than the cramped, low-ceilinged room she’d holed herself into could persuade her to leave. “Beg pardon, madonna, but if I have to look at all that water again I really will be sick.”

So, with one final pat on the back, Aurelia left her maid to it— _attendant_ , she corrected. A proper lady-in-waiting for the purpose of this mission of theirs. _I really should arrange something for her when we get back_ , she thought, climbing the steps that led back to the deck. Despite being a good fifteen years older, Valentina had never spoken of marriage or a man or an attachment of any kind, but perhaps Aurelia could make a gift of a dowry for her three nieces. Yes, Valentina might like that. _If we ever make it back to Florence._

Lorenzo was speaking to one of the deckhands on the starboard side. She hung back a little and watched him, the wind catching at his unruly hair, the equal ease with which he spoke to captain and crude sailor striking her like a warm blow. He was the most remarkable man Aurelia had ever known—would ever know, perhaps. And now his head turned as he saw her, his smile catching her unawares as he finished his conversation and came towards her, meeting her halfway at the rail so that the water rushed right underneath them.

“I thought discretion was important,” she said, nodding her head towards the sailor, whom she’d clearly heard calling him _Messer Medici_. His true name was also known to the captain and to the man in Livorno who arranged their passage.

Lorenzo leaned his back on the beam. “Riario has spies everywhere. If he thinks the alliance is in danger, he will abandon Florence to pursue me. It may give the Ten more room to maneuver.”

“It may,” she conceded, “but it will definitely leave you with less.”

“Me?” He tilted his head at her. “I thought you said we were in this together.” The corners of his mouth were lifted. Strange that she was walking right into danger, yet felt inexplicably light. Lorenzo must feel the same, because there was a looseness to his movements that only increased the further they sailed from home. It was exhilarating to be _doing_ something after months of stagnating, hands tied, movement hindered, waiting out a cold winter with bated breaths while they tried figuring out what nefarious plot Riario would next employ.

Well now it was their move, and they had always enjoyed playing together.

Aurelia squinted at the sun glinting off the Tyrrhenian Sea, biting her lip to stop her own smile from showing. She adopted a stern, prim air and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Messer, you are far too forward. I have never met you in my life.”

“Really?” He leaned forward and her heart stuttered. “Because I heard the ship’s master call you my wife and you failed to correct him.”

Her cheeks went red—she couldn’t see them, but she knew they must be the same shade as her hair. “I didn’t want to be rude,” she managed with her last remaining shred of dignity.

"It’s a shame we’ve never met, then, madonna, because otherwise it would be perfectly acceptable for me to do this.” He pulled her the remaining step towards him and her body went, pliant and willing, right into the shelter of his. Valentina would have a convulsion if she saw the way his lips pressed to her jaw, his hand around her waist.

Aurelia’s laugh came out shaky, on the tail-end of a sigh. “I am quite certain it is _always_ unacceptable to do that on the deck of a ship.”

“They’re mariners,” he said with a shrug. “I’m sure they’ve seen worse. For all they know, we could be newlyweds sailing home after our marriage.” _If only…_ It wasn’t that Aurelia had a desire for marriage—she meant it when she vowed never to do it again—it was that the very rules that kept the dance in check had turned into a reminder of all the things she couldn’t have. Could never, because they belonged to Clarice.

But, oh, how she wanted them… She wanted them all, until Aurelia was convinced Lucrezia Donati could never have loved Lorenzo half as much as she claimed, or she never could have borne the weight of impossible hopes.

She stopped herself; better not to indulge that line of thought. She placed a hand on Lorenzo’s chest, pushing him back a little, wanting some distance, but not to be apart. “Well, _husband_ ,” she said, still playing at sternness but relishing the word, “if we mean to keep our heads we need to set down a plan, and soon. Ideally, we wouldn’t even be on the same ship, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ll disembark separately. By now, Ippolita should have gotten my letter and the house should be open—with any luck, that will muddle the time of our arrivals. You and Alessi can arrange matters on your end while I present myself to Ferrante.”

Lorenzo nodded like a deferent squire, playing along, but after this last bit, he inclined his head and said, “He _will_ know you’re with me, you know.”

She did. “The point is not to trick him, it is to lead him in our direction.”

“You’re counting on his being intrigued by you.”

“I want him to think he has us in check.”

“He does,” Lorenzo pointed out.

"And yet we both know a check may not always be the end of the game. What?” He was looking at her strangely, a softness in his eyes that took her back to their afternoon, a look she now realized he had given her many times before, like that day in the garden when she showed him the letter from Bona, and before that, every now and then, for her entire life. How had she been blind to it before? How could she have missed it?

“You are incredible.” She blushed, tried to stammer something out to deflect from the bubbling joy she felt at the compliment, but found herself unable, especially when Lorenzo pushed an errant lock of hair away from her face and kissed the corner of her mouth. From somewhere on the deck came a sharp, suggestive whistle that made her blush redder but made him laugh. He tucked her into his arms as the sea went past, so vast and endlessly blue that, for a moment, Aurelia forgot herself and who she was supposed to be.

* * *

They parted ways at the port, Lorenzo giving Aurelia a head start to the house, where she and a still woozy Valentina met her Neapolitan agent, Goretti, and his long-limbed, owl-faced son, Orazio. Goretti said, “I hope it is not an inconvenience to have him here, Madonna Affini, but I am teaching him the trade. You can count on his discretion—he is family, after all—and one never knows: it may be he who handles your affairs one day.” Aurelia doubted it. Signore Goretti looked fit for many years more, whereas young Orazio had the look of a boy who wouldn’t withstand a brisk wind.

The agent motioned for them to follow him deeper into the residence, his pace brisk and purposeful as Aurelia unfastened the ties of her traveling cloak. Through force of habit, Valentina reached over and to take it from her, but Aurelia stopped her, swishing it out of her grasp and leaving it to the care of one of the anonymous servants in the employ of this unknown house where she’d never been. Valentina was not a servant—not today.

Somehow, this discomfiting bit of news made her wobble more than the sea voyage. She blinked and frowned as the same stocky maid took the plain brown cloak from her shoulders, stared forlornly after her as she took their things to put them in some nondescript closet or cupboard. Aurelia bit back her amused grin.

With the house in Naples, the Affini proved once again their time-honored penchant for practicality. Why waste luxury on a house in a city where no one meant to live? It was a plain, open space with more thought to function than attention to detail. In size, it was probably Palazzo d'Affini reduced by half, but Aurelia found the sparseness of her surroundings soothing rather than oppressive, the way her home had felt when she first moved in seven years ago. _There are no ghosts here_ , she noted, satisfied. It was an in-between place meant for clarity of thought, no frills or needless decoration or distractions of any kind. It was a war tent.

She thought: _It will do._

“Now,” Goretti said, motioning for Aurelia to take a seat in the study, “I am afraid you have caught us all a bit unawares, madonna, what with the short notice of your visit, but I have done my best to follow your instructions to the letter. Ah—speaking of letters…” He snapped his fingers in the direction of his son. Orazio blinked, head tilted in confusion until the latter sighed and snapped his fingers again, an exasperated series of clicks.

“The letters, boy!” That prompted him to pat at his pockets until he produced the requested items. Goretti handed them to her with a flourish.

One was an update of the Neapolitan accounts, the three most recent manifests, the names of trading contacts, partners, suppliers and buyers connected with the city; the other was slimmer, a single page written on fine vellum, the writing elegantly slanted. She broke the seal, felt an odd mixture of panic and relief. It was a sham of a message, just as her own letter had been a blatant lie—a lie so blatant, in fact, that it had served its purpose well.

_Dearest Aurelia,_

_The unexpected pleasure of your note, as well as the news of your impending arrival in Naples, has been a welcome respite in these times of ceaseless war. Of course I remember my time in Florence fondly, as I remember you._

_When you arrive, please do me the honor of allowing me to introduce you to my family. My father-in-law the King is eager to meet one of the shining lights of Florence, especially one so well known to his eldest daughter, our beloved Eleonora, Duchess of Ferrara._

_Please come. We expect you in the evening. He commands that you dine with us that he may hear the stories you have to tell, and the great business that brings you to our kingdom._

_I am, as always, your friend and humble servant,_

_Ippolita Maria Sforza_

This evening… It was getting off to a running start, wasn’t it? But speed was key—Riario would not hold off the siege forever. She felt nervous, knowing this part of the plan fell to her and her alone. She’d grown so used to Lorenzo’s guiding hand over the last few years, the reassurance of his presence. Had it not been he who set her on the path to Eleonora in the first place? To Bona and Marcella and the very Queen of France.

_I can do this_ , she told herself, sitting in that chair in her husband’s house— _in_ her _house_ , she corrected. Lorenzo may have urged her on, but it was her own hand that nurtured those ties, that fed and strengthened them like a flowering plant with roots that had grown even beyond the confines of the peninsula.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, madonna?” She looked up at Goretti’s solicitous face, at her perplexed maid and at the flustered Orazio.

_Donna_ , he called her—like the queen on a chess board.

She breathed out, her shoulders squared. “Yes,” she replied, “everything is as it should be.”

They brought very few things with them to Naples, but Aurelia, as the widow of a man with a near-encyclopedic knowledge of textiles, knew the value of proper clothing, and she made room for it in her luggage. Proper did not always mean fine; her traveling dress was well-stitched and of good quality, but it was modest, comfortable, not likely to be remembered, which was exactly her intention in choosing it.

Dinner with Ferrante would be theatre. Everyone involved planned to lie through their teeth, and that required some armor. As soon as the agents left, she and Valentina got to work.

With careful fingers, they pulled out a gown of shot silk, red wefted in purple so that it shone like light through a glass of Burgundy wine. Of all her faults—and she would be the first to admit there were many—vanity was not the most outstanding, but even she had to give an enamored sigh at the feel of it beneath her fingers, the color so rich she could stare at it for hours. The skirts were many-layered, a mastery of drapery more often seen in the courts of Paris and Vienna than in the Republic of Florence, but she didn’t want to feel Florentine tonight. She wanted to feel untouchable, the way Bona seemed that day when they met, the way Marcella sounded in her letters.

Aurelia couldn’t well travel with a purse full of jewels, but she’d had the forethought to bring a matching pair of ruby pendants and a necklace worked in gold. When she looked at herself in the mirror, her long red hair done into a simple braided coil at the back of her head, she hardly recognized herself. She wasn’t Aurelia the Indecisive, or the kind of woman who would care a whit about the opinions of her husband’s long-dead relations. This woman wouldn’t spare a thought for a king, for a war, or the minor inconvenience that the man she loved was married to someone else.

She stood straighter, yet her shoulders were more relaxed, her head higher. _It will do._ So far, so good.

“Now for you,” she declared, clapping her hands and gesturing to Valentina, still in her travel-worn frock.

“ _Me?_ ” she asked. “But I am not invited!”

“What did you say? ‘People talk, even in Naples’? I can’t very well walk into Castel Nuovo without a lady attending me. Do you think the Duchess of Calabria wanders around the city on her own?”

“But I am not a lady!”

"Not in that you’re not.” Aurelia reached into the trunk again, the rubies brushing against her cheek as she bent down and grasped a dark blue damask. “But in this—” she spun around and held it up for Valentina to see, “—you’ll be my well-born, loyal, watchful companion…”

Valentina backed away, yet, at the same time, her gaze lingered longingly on the gown, finer than anything she had worn in her almost forty years. “Oh, no, I couldn't—I really couldn't—”

But she did.

* * *

The New Castle was a fortress of daunting proportions surrounded by a moat and defended by a legion of armed soldiers as forbidding as the reputation of the king they guarded. The women could not help but gape at the two enormous towers that flanked the entrance; they looked like looming giants in the dwindling light of evening. Aurelia steeled herself, remembered her purpose. Florence would not fall, not to the men who murdered her friend.

And then she thought of Lorenzo, waiting for her to finish her move. He trusted her, and that filled her with more courage than she could have mustered for herself.

“Are you certain about this, madonna?” asked Valentina.

They passed through the marble arch and into the piazza escorted by two of those stony-faced soldiers and Aurelia nodded once, determined. “What’s a bit of supper among friends?”

They were left by the wordless guards at the entrance of the great hall. From the doorway she caught a glimpse of the enormous cavern of the room, the vaulted ceiling with the night-black oculus in its center like the pistil of a venomous flower. _It is theatre_ , she repeated. Had she not been playing a variety of roles all her life?

She stepped forward. Valentina followed a few steps behind, looking the part of lady in her borrowed gown. Her eyes shifted uncertainly, like the flames of the hundred candles that illuminated the hall and the players within, but Aurelia trained hers on the dais, on the throne upon which Ferrante sat, broad and grey-haired with a look that managed to be both droll and predatory at the same time. There were two other figures flanking him on either side, but she blocked them from her thoughts; they were not her concern—not yet. Instead, she made the most of the instant between first sight and first bow to take the king’s measure.

“Madonna,” drawled Ferrante. He motioned lazily with his wrist for Aurelia to rise. “I trust your journey was not overly unpleasant. Such last-minute arrangements never make for comfortable travel.”

_So he is to play the white._ She smiled, hands laced in front of her in the proper manner. “Your Highness’s concern is much appreciated, but a little discomfort is nothing when the matter is of importance.”

“Of course,” he nodded, indulgently. “That matter being…”

“An unfortunate misunderstanding,” she said. “The present friction between Florence and Naples has one of my brokers feeling… less than certain—shall we say?—about continuing with our business relationship.” She heard Lorenzo’s voice: _A story so transparent…_ But that was the point. Sacrifice a pawn, make it as obvious as possible.

Ferrante _hmm_ ed. "And yet, Madonna Valori, I have heard tell you are quite prodigious with ink and paper. Would a letter not have been more appropriate, seeing as my men are at your gates?”

She let her brow arch. “Appropriate for whom, my lord? Regardless of who holds power, my son still requires a roof over his head, food at his table, and what sort of guardian of fortune would I be if I let someone else’s quarrels bankrupt his inheritance?”

The king chuckled. His eyes were like twin ice daggers that probed while his fingers rubbed at his bearded chin. “And here I thought you a true Florentine.”

Indignation rose sudden and sharp, but she pushed it down. _Remember your role._ “I love Florence, Your Highness, but I love my son more.”

“A pretty sentiment.” Ferrante turned to the woman at his side and Aurelia’s field of focus widened, grudgingly, to include her. “What do you think, duchess? You are also a mother. Do you agree with Madonna Valori? Would you also abandon your city in its hour of need for a… What was it? A shipping dispute?”

“If it would ensure the security of my children.” Ippolita’s tone had the flat character of thinly hammered metal. Her hands were balled into fists in her lap and she flinched away, minutely but instinctively, from every movement of the king’s.

Ferrante gave another low, dark laugh. “Why is it that the more beautiful the woman the more mercenary she is in nature? Madonna Valori—if only your friends the Medici could hear you now. But, of course, they are far away, and what they do or do not know will soon be of little consequence. Unless…” He paused. “But no… Far more likely you appear before me a beautiful young widow looking to see an old friend. Because if it were otherwise… if, say, that beautiful young widow thought to sway my hand, it would be foolishness on her part to leave the safety of her home, her son, her upstanding family, those two protective brothers of hers, and come here, into this fortress of mine, this kingdom where my word is law, where one appears and… _disappears_ at the pleasure of the king.”

Aurelia bowed at the threat. “As you say, Your Highness, the former is far more likely.”

“So it is.” The king’s large frame unfolded from the great, black throne. “Shall we dine, then? Enrico, escort the lady.” On his other side, the thin, dark-haired young man moved forward. He looked nothing like Ferrante, but she guessed he was one of his many sons. There was a nobility to his gaze that was absent from the father’s, a touch of kindness as he nodded his head and motioned her towards the table set up on the other end of the hall.

Ferrante gestured to the chair on his right—the place of honor. “Please, you are my guest tonight.” As dinner progressed, the king proved himself well capable of courtly graces. There was something brutish about his charm, but Aurelia soon understood the reason behind the myriad bastards, the many mistresses. His energy was equal parts frightening and magnetic—or was he magnetic because he was frightening, like a poisonous, carnivore plant?

“Madonna Valori,” he said halfway through their meal, “tell me something about my Ippolita. A secret of your time together in Florence.” Across the table, Ippolita remained silent, but there was a touch of fear in her eyes, of warning. It was jarring to see.

It was not the first time Ferrante singled out his daughter-in-law. Of Enrico he seemed fond, but there was a cruel undercurrent to his treatment of Ippolita that made Aurelia uncomfortable. It was improper for a man to so flaunt his disdain before a stranger. “I’m afraid I can be of little help to you, sire, and, I confess, even if I knew of such a secret, I would not tell it.”

He blinked at her bold honesty. “You are a slow learner, madonna. Did I not say my word was law?”

Aurelia looked to Ippolita. _Tread carefully_ , her eyes said. She shifted her gaze back to the king. “Have you ever killed, Your Highness?”

“What a question over dinner!”

Aurelia stared pointedly at his plate laden with thick cuts of sauced meat, said, “Is death not dinner?”

That amused him. “And they call the Magnificent the silver-tongue! All right—I have killed many men, and I imagine I have yet to kill many more.“

"Then you know what it is to see life go—warrior as well as priest have death as their due. It is the lot of men. But us…” She gestured to Ippolita. “We know what it is to see life come—and what man has ever been admitted to the birthing chamber to see it done? What man could ever understand what it is to make soldiers and priests… and kings. We are full of secret things,” she said. “The duchess may safely keep hers.”

Ferrante drummed his fingers on the table as he stared at her. “I find I am much more interested in your secrets, madonna. Eleonora tells me you’ve a taste for politicking—an odd pastime for a woman with no husband.“

"Not necessarily. My family has held a seat in the Signoria for six generations. I would say politics is less a pastime and more the lifeblood of the Valori.”

“Oh, I am sure it pays to be well connected. Tell me, is it true that your ancestress Caterina was known to frequent Cosimo de’ Medici’s bed?”

Wine stuck in her throat. Aurelia tried to clear it noiselessly before replying, “If she was, it was well before my time.” Delicacy had cost her a bit of precious composure. He had made such an inappropriate question on purpose, just as she’d done when she asked him if he’d ever killed. _Well played._

Ferrante continued his attack. “And you—were you not nearly betrothed to a Medici at some point? The dead one, Giuliano. The one for which this trouble with Sixtus began—the one for which your city falls.”

Aurelia gritted her teeth but did not rise to take the bait. “It was discussed. But then I was wed to Enrico Affini.”

“Ah, yes, the Genoese merchant of the conveniently short lifespan! Quite the time since his death, but you have not remarried. A woman as gifted as you must have suitors. Lovers. What say you, Ippolita? Does your friend keep a lover?”

The duchess pursed her lips. “I cannot say.”

“You women!” he laughed. “Cannot say, _will_ not say… But watch me leave the room and you’d be singing like birds! Only to each other, though. Yes, secrets are your due—and treachery, as the first of you will attest.” His eyes narrowed. _Oh, yes, Eve the treacherous; but no one ever spoke of Adam the coward._ “You have many friends in Europe, Madonna Valori; I have made it a mission of mine to find them out. There is Ippolita here, whom you’ve never written before, despite your mutual show of zealous defense; then there is her brother’s widow, Bona, whose unwise choice in bedfellows will soon cost her Milan. You are known to the queen of France, the Doria of Genoa, my own Eleonora… Yet all _my_ songbirds say there is none closer to you than the Medici. Is their song mistaken?”

Aurelia said nothing. All night he’d made a show of casually flaunting the things he knew about her.

Ferrante lowered his fork, wiped his mouth again before throwing the cloth down onto the table like a gauntlet. “Do not think I am misled by this ruse of yours, madonna. What does Medici want?”

“You may ask him yourself.”

His head cocked mockingly. “Then are we no longer pretending you did not come to Naples together?”

A critical moment, a critical question. It was the one they’d been moving towards from the beginning. “ _Was_ I pretending?” she asked. “Your Highness—you never asked.”

He rumbled, “I asked why you’d come.”

“And I spoke truth—I have an appointment with my broker in the morning. Do you require the particulars? A letter of reference?”

She’d provoked him and now his fist banged on the table. The force of it made Enrico and Ippolita jump. “You think I will not kill him just because you’re here to tell the tale? Do you think me a sentimental man?”

“I think you a reasonable one. Otherwise, you would have had us arrested as soon as our ship made port.”

The king’s scoff held a touch of disgust. “Lorenzo de’ Medici wants to beg for his city? Then why is he not here? Why does he send a _woman_ to do a man’s business?”

The knife’s edge—she couldn’t back down just yet, but she mustn’t anger him past a certain point. One small, final push. “Your Highness, I came at _your_ invitation. If you wish to hear what Lorenzo has to say, all you have to do is invite him into your presence.”

She had him. She knew it and so did he. A brief, grudging flash of respect flickered in the eyes of the king, there one moment, gone the next.

Ferrante leaned back in his chair, waved his ringless hand in that lazy way again— _what do I care?_ “Let Medici come,” he said.

Across the table, Ippolita gave her the barest of nods.

* * *

A woman she’d never seen was standing outside her broker’s office the next day. Aurelia had kept her appointment—more for show than anything—and she emerged from the seaside building to the blinding glare of afternoon to find her there, waiting. It was obvious from the woman’s searching stare, the half-step forward, that she was there for a purpose, and Valentina, growing accustomed to her new role, stepped around Aurelia to speak to her.

They exchanged a few quiet words. Valentina received a note in her hand, and the woman, having completed her errand, turned on her heel and left in the direction of the castle. “It is from the duchess,” she informed her mistress, offering it unsealed. “She wishes for you to visit her today, as soon as your business is concluded.”

Aurelia opened the note. It expressed the same message, no hint of more, no hint of less, and the tone was more direct than their previous letters had been: no _dear_ or _loving friend_. The play was done; only the game remained.

_Watch me leave the room and you’d be singing like birds_. Why was Ferrante allowing them to meet? And she knew it was he who allowed it; she gathered from Ippolita’s tight-fisted reserve of the previous night that her every movement was controlled by the king. Was he planning on installing spies in her rooms to catch Aurelia in a trap?

Either way, it was clear to her that the invitation was not merely that. She was expected to accept, to go, even if it was the last thing she wanted to do when Lorenzo had probably finished his own meeting with Ferrante. If it were up to her, she’d go straight to his villa and see if he was well, how it had gone, if she’d read Ferrante aright—because if she had, Lorenzo would have been less successful than he’d hoped. The king of Naples would not be swayed by silver words or fine treasures. He played the way a viper did, or a street cat who has endured the game of its own survival for so long it now enjoys the hunt.

“For once, I think your charms might meet with some resistance,” she warned him last night, after leaving dinner. He’d been waiting for her at the house. “That is, if the king is your intended target.”

Lorenzo stilled. _He does it again_ , she thought, annoyed by the effect any mention of Ippolita seemed to have on him.

It was not a dart she would have normally thrown, but she was still reeling from the high-stakes back-and-forth with Ferrante, still wearing the dress and the disguise of a woman far bolder than she. And it was this _city_. Its undercurrent of tension and danger. It was seeing how lovely the duchess looked, lovelier even than when she’d been nineteen, as if the harsh conditions of her life since then had leant her a wounded allure.

“Aurelia…” he said. The kindness in his voice, the touch of _you’re being silly_ made her feel just that, even as the sight of him filled her with an overwhelming possessiveness. _They can’t have him—not the duchess and not the king._

“We’ve both much to do in the morning,” she said with finality.

Lorenzo sighed. His hand came to stroke at her elbow and she saw that, though he wanted to speak, he knew she didn’t want to hear it. “Thank you for tonight,” he murmured.

She’d tried her best to ignore the exchange, but it made her night restless and it came to the forefront of her mind as she and Valentina made the short walk to Ippolita’s rooms. Like her broker’s office, they, too, faced the sea—as well as rooms could when surrounded by thick stone walls. Both were admitted with ease, but Valentina was made to sit in the antechamber with her hostess’s cadre of ladies.

So this would be a private meeting.

Aurelia eyed them all suspiciously, recognizing one as their erstwhile messenger. Could they be the spies? Valentina nodded her on with an expression that conveyed, so clearly, _I’ll handle them_. Inwardly, Aurelia smiled. One day, Ippolita Maria Sforza may be queen, but would she ever have a Valentina Gaspardi?

She stepped through the dividing curtain into the dark-paneled, tastefully appointed sitting room beyond. Ippolita rose at her entrance, bowed her head. Aurelia did the same.

_If ever you forget yourself…_

Why was she remembering her father now, in this matter of women?

She answered her own question: Because Bartolomeo Valori never let himself be dazzled by anyone.

“Duchess,” she said. Ippolita motioned for her to sit. She was different away from her father-in-law. She took up more space, though her features were still perfectly arranged into a blank mask. A bit like Simonetta’s used to be.

Ferrante wanted to know why beautiful women were so mercenary? His son’s wife could have told him, if he actually cared to know. It was cruel necessity. A vigilance born of unremitting threat. 

Ippolita took to her own chair. The light from the open windows limned her blond curls, played up the delicate angles of her face. “How many years…” she mused. “When I last saw you, you were a slip of a girl. Now you save cities and are friends with queens.” There was a note of wistfulness in her rich contralto, as if she’d give anything for Aurelia’s freedom.

The hint of her jealousy should have soothed, given her some measure of satisfaction, but it didn’t. Ippolita was so achingly perfect it made her throat seize up. She felt fifteen-years-old again, young and shy, discovering the name for a palette of emotions with which she had no experience, no point of reference. Attachment, affection, desire, envy, infatuation, restlessness, lust. Despair. And in the midst of it all was Ippolita Sforza, four years older with a knowledge of what to say and do. Lorenzo was taken with her on sight, and all Aurelia could do was pine, stewing all the while in the overwhelming riot of her own feelings.

“You give me far too much credit.”

"Not the way Bona tells it,” Ippolita smiled. She’d always been kind. Somehow that made everything worse.

“Have you spoken to her?”

A brief hesitation: “Not lately.”

“Not since Ludovico started hounding her?” She couldn’t help it. Aurelia’s words dripped with resentment for Ippolita’s brother, the boy-duke’s uncle who was but a step away from wresting power. His sister had nothing to do with it, of course—she could control _Il Moro_ as well as anyone had ever been able to control Galeazzo before him—but she was feeling waspish, had been since last night and she hated it. Hated that she was behaving like an unsophisticate child.

The duchess remained even and calm. “She made a mistake.”

"She fell in love.” Did she not deserve to, after all those years of lonely unhappiness? 

Ippolita’s smile turned sad. "As I said—they are often one and the same.” 

Aurelia bit her tongue, looked away. Even she had to concede the point.

The duchess took advantage of the heavy pause to offer her a drink. She declined, but the sound of Ippolita filling her own glass filled the quiet of the room, mingling with the murmuring of the ladies next door. After a while, she said, “You came to Naples for Lorenzo.” Aurelia’s chastising look brought a touch of humor back to Ippolita’s face. She said, “Don’t worry, you may speak freely. The only birds here are the ones outside these windows. After all this time, I have often wondered whether your feelings for him had changed. I see now that they have not.”

“Neither have yours.”

She didn’t deny it. Her expression turned wistful, and she frowned slightly as she tried to find the right word. “He has a way of sticking in the mind, like…”

“Hope.” It came so seamlessly that Aurelia was only half-aware it was she, not Ippolita, who had spoken. The women looked at one another and, in that uncanny moment, it was like staring into a mirror. She had no way of knowing what image the duchess saw in her but, for the first time, Aurelia took in the measure of her rival dispassionately, not as a threat, but as a matter of fact. Ippolita Sforza: beautiful, intelligent, resilient, brave. Languishing in this tower, waiting for someone wholly out of reach.

Her breath caught. She flinched back from the image. _No_ , she insisted to herself, _no, it is not the same thing at all. Lorenzo and I—_

She stopped. _Lorenzo and I._ There was Lorenzo, in his palace with his wife and three precious children, his mother, Florence both his burden and his crown. And then there was her. In a tower made of dreams, as impenetrable as the walls that shut Ippolita in, separating her from the rest of the world.

She clutched the armrest of her chair, wishing she’d accepted Ippolita’s offer of a drink after all. Wherever the duchess’s reverie took her, it also seemed a place she’d rather not be. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, her eyes full of a compassion in which Aurelia could find no fault. “I confess, after I left Florence I thought for certain you would find a way to marry him. I wished it, even. But you married another.”

“It was not my choice.”

“No, I should have known better. But at least you have found a way to be together.” Aurelia stiffened uncomfortably. Ippolita blinked, confused. “I’m sorry, I thought… Ferrante was so sure…”

“I am not his mistress.” Her choice—it was her choice, but she tasted bitterness as she said it. _I don’t want to be his mistress, I wanted to be his wife._ To share his home and his troubles, his thoughts, to mother his children, to be able to fight with him, even, and feel she had a right to her frustration.

What was it about this place? She had felt so close to Lorenzo on the ship. It had been the two of them, together, on the same side. He’d held her and she’d been so sure of his affection, but now she wondered at the point. Adrift.

He never told her he loved her, but then, she never told him. As if they both knew the admission was futile. Pointless. Without hope.

“You should know Girolamo Riario is here. He is with Ferrante as we speak.” Ippolita’s words brought her back to the present, reminding her that there were more pressing happenings to worry about.

“Do you know how it went with Lorenzo?”

“Not well.” _I knew it._ She would have cursed if it were proper. “If I may offer you some advice? Lorenzo wants to win the king’s favor, but Ferrante is a hard man, not easy to please. More feasible would it be to make your enemy lose face.”

"You have a plan?” The duchess nodded; the gesture alone was treasonous. Her husband was the one leading the Neapolitan forces allied with Riario, a man related to Ippolita by marriage through his union with Galeazzo’s daughter, Caterina. Meddling would put her in danger. Yet it was her very position at the middle of all their webs that gave her an advantage neither she nor Lorenzo had. She knew the players better than anyone. “But why?” asked Aurelia. “Why help us? Why risk yourself?”

“Because it is something I can do.” It was about Lorenzo, yet it was not. She searched Ippolita for some subterfuge, some dishonest motive, but there was only determination. And hope. To do something other than sit in her tower and wait for old age to come. God help her, but Aurelia knew the feeling, the impulse, even in the face of great cost, to prove everyone wrong. “Have Lorenzo come see me.“

"Very well.”

Before she left, Ippolita paused to look into her face. “I really did think…” she said. “A strange thing… Nothing has worked out the way I thought it would.” And though Aurelia did not say, the answering thought rang through her mind. _That makes two of us._

* * *

Riario worked quickly. Lorenzo’s offer of free trade and an alliance between Florence and Naples was worth less to Ferrante once he discovered the state of the Medici accounts. No matter how much Lorenzo denied the veracity of Riario’s report, the damage was done: the king distrusted them both, and he expressed his displeasure by taking the men hostage and setting the price for Lorenzo’s freedom at 50,000 florins to be paid within a week—proof that his family had gold with which to promise him prosperity.

But the judgment did not apply to Aurelia.

“You should go,” Lorenzo told her after the banquet. “There is no telling what may happen. A week could turn into longer, or…” He trailed off.

Seeing him so cornered made her feel guilty for the way she’d last spoken to him, not to mention she was still in shock at his admission that Riario’s report was true, that his family was actually underwater. Beyond the shelter of the loggia, the night was dense and dark, like the way set out before them.

_More feasible would it be to make your enemy lose face._ A pity Riario had come to the same conclusion.

Exposing Lorenzo’s weakness before the entire Neapolitan court—congregated to celebrate Enrico’s appointment to the Knights of Naples—had been a grand play, and though she was certain being taken hostage along with his enemy had not been part of the plan, in the end, the lord of Imola had gotten what he wanted—a cease to the negotiations, a hit to Lorenzo’s confidence. And a few pointed jabs at her for good measure, though she’d never met the hateful man before in her life. _“I can’t decide whether dangling your pretty mistress in front of Ferrante is a novel diplomatic tactic or the oldest trick in the book. You know, if all else fails, you could always throw her into the bargain.”_

If he’d been a real man, he would have said it to the king’s face, not thrown it surreptitiously when he wasn’t looking. Damn him. There was no way she was letting him win.

She set her hand atop Lorenzo’s on the stone balcony. “No. If we leave, we leave together.”

He nodded. Turned his palm in her grasp, gaze fixed on the glide of his thumb over the ridge of her knuckles. “We should talk,” he said after a while.

She wanted to. Truth be told, she’d been a mess of nerves since the day Lorenzo went to see Ippolita. What did they say? What did they do? Was he as taken with her as he’d been when they were young? Aurelia wanted him to soothe her fears, but she was also afraid speaking might prove them to be true.

_You are braver than this_ , she told herself. “All right.”

An expectant silence. A calm before the storm. “I cannot…” Lorenzo began. Stopped. There was a furrow in his forehead between his brows and the corners of his mouth were downturned. Eyes fixed on their entwined hands. He shook his head, a sound of frustration leaving his lips—he was supposed to be good with words. He tried again. “I cannot undo what’s been done. The choices I’ve made… I can explain some to myself, but not all. I always knew you didn’t want to marry Giuliano and a part of me hoped, in my vanity, that it might have had something to do with your regard for me, but like a fool, I did nothing. That day in the country is a door I return to every time I look at you, and the things I should have done—the things a better man would have done—they weigh on me and they are my burden to carry. For my cowardice, for whatever foolish thought stopped me from going to your father and telling him I wanted you for wife. Because I did. I did.”

Aurelia stood frozen. Rooted. She couldn’t tell if she was breathing too quickly or not at all. Lorenzo shook his bowed head. She wanted to smooth back the curl that fell into his eyes. “After you left, everything was different. There were so many days when all I could do was wonder whether you were happy. Whether you were growing to love him.” His eyes lifted, those breathtaking blue eyes steeped in honesty, and he asked, “Did you love him?”

“Lorenzo.” She took his hand in both of hers. “There has never been anyone for me but you. But you—you cannot say the same, can you? Lucrezia, Ippolita, even Clarice…”

“None like you.” His hand came to the side of her face, his touch gentle but firm. Believe me, it said. “I swear it, Aurelia, I swear it on—” The crack in his voice broke her.

_Giuliano_ —he meant to say Giuliano.

She closed her eyes, clutched his wrist because there was nothing else to anchor her, to stop the shuddering sob that threatened to pour out, a forlorn sound fed on years of regret.

_A door._ If only they could go back.

It was his fault and it was hers and nobody’s at the very same time. Just fate, conspiring to bring them here to this villa of the Medici in Naples, so far from home and faced with the weight of their uncountable missteps.

She opened her eyes. “I love you, Lorenzo. I love you, and I will never love anyone else—”

The moment he kissed her, the rules of the dance were broken. There was no more pretending, no evasion or masquerade. His breath was ragged against her lips and she could feel his longing, could hear and taste it as he clutched the back of her head, pulled her to him with desperate fingers. “I can offer you nothing,” he murmured against her mouth, and his voice was as heavy with remorse as it was with yearning. “There is nothing I can give, nothing worthy of you.”

Her lips followed his. She breathed, “Yes, there is.” Lorenzo tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was an achingly sweet gesture, as was the whisper-soft drag of his fingers along her cheek. He looked at her and the world fell away.

“I love you,” he said. Uttered like a pledge, solemn and true.

* * *

The days of Lorenzo’s house arrest were hectic and filled with anxious scrambling—Riario, betting on the Medici’s insolvency, was counting on the week to pass and for Ferrante to make good on his threat—but the evenings were quiet and, for the most part, close to perfect. After that first night at the villa, Aurelia no longer saw the point in keeping up a pretense. The entire court already thought her Lorenzo’s mistress; tongues couldn’t possibly wag any more and she no longer cared about feigning innocence. She was tired of pretending. Could not hold up the sham a moment longer if she tried, and here, in Naples, she didn’t have to.

Besides, something new had arisen between her and Lorenzo. The things unsaid no longer between them, she felt easier around him. Less guarded, more herself. If she wanted to lean on him as they walked in the garden, she could do it without a second thought, without agonizing over the urge, dissecting it until the moment passed.

She no longer let the moments pass.

At night, she followed him into his bedchamber like it was the most natural thing in the world, retracing the steps she’d taken after he told her he loved her. Then, she’d been the first to kiss him, but she couldn’t remember who began leading whom—only that, once inside his room, with her hair spilling over his hand and his mouth sweeping hot and wet at the base of her throat, he’d said the word _stay_ , and there was no way she was leaving, not when he said it like that, low and needful, muffled by her skin as he pressed her body into the door as if to keep her from going.

He was overwhelming and she wanted to be swept away, to know what it was like to have him desperate. For Lorenzo to beg for her, for once.

She would blush over it later. Press her lips into a bashful smile to be hidden from Valentina or from Lorenzo himself when she remembered.

It was like wearing that gorgeous, transportive dress, the one that made her feel untouchable—except she was wearing a different one then and he made quick work of stripping it from her anyway, and though she felt different, she certainly wasn’t untouched. His hands trailed everywhere, his lips and teeth and tongue following not far behind. There were touches she was sure she would never forget. The feel of his hair was seared permanently into her palm, like the sound of the rolling groan he made when, lost in the sea of him, she pulled a little harder than intended.

Valentina watched the change in her mistress with some trepidation, but said nothing.

Five days after the banquet, Aurelia was in her house speaking to Goretti about the possibility of booking passage away from Naples when Orazio spoke up, hesitant in the face of his father’s ill-concealed glare at being interrupted. “Beg pardon, madonna, but the sailors have been restless of late. They speak rumors of an Ottoman raid. By week’s end, there may not be any ships left in harbor.”

“Madonna Valori, forgive the boy. He spends too much time listening to nonsense.”

Orazio was affronted. There was red on his cheeks and he regarded the women with wide eyes, trying to convince them of what he said. “It is not nonsense, father—I heard it with my own ears!”

The agent’s nose flared. “Who would ever be fool enough to attack the shore of a fortified castle?”

“Well, I never said the attack would be here!”

Once the disgruntled father and son left, Valentina turned to Aurelia and asked, “Do you think the king knows?”

“If he did, he would have done something by now. There would be soldiers mobilizing in the street.”

“But Signore Goretti is right—it wouldn’t make sense for an attack to happen so close to the castle. So, where else?”

Aurelia propped her chin in her hand. “That is the question,” and it was one she took straight to Lorenzo that very afternoon. “This could be our way out, could it not? If Ferrante is busy with the Turks…”

Lorenzo frowned, his head tilted in that intensely focused way she loved. “He won’t forget the ransom. We have to play this carefully. It is not enough to escape or be set free; we need a treaty for Florence or this whole thing will have been for nothing.”

“Ippolita will know what to do.” Lorenzo looked up, surprised by the easy way in which she said the name. She no longer felt threatened by the beautiful duchess, not by her or Lucrezia or anyone else who had come before. Lorenzo was hers. The thought no longer came with fear or doubt but with certainty. The kind that made her steady. “She had a plan to turn Ferrante against Riario, did she not? If we give her the information of this rumor, she may still be able to carry it out.”

“I can go, madonna.” Valentina stepped away from the edges of the room, so different from the silent servant she’d been in Florence. Her mouth was set in a determined line. “There is a lady of the duchess’s—Felicia is her name—the one who waited by the wharf for us? She can be trusted. I can give her the message.”

Aurelia and Lorenzo shared a wordless glance. A communication without words. Then she nodded. “Go, then. But be careful.” Once the door closed behind her, she turned back to Lorenzo. “You know, if this works, we’ll be able to go home.”

_Home_ —and to whatever obstacles awaited them there.

Lorenzo brushed his hands up her arms and squeezed the curve of her shoulders. His gaze was so open, so warm. “Home,” he repeated, and it sounded like an invitation, a promise that included them both.

Valentina returned as the sun began to slant westward with a four-word instruction: _Leave it to me._ Lorenzo didn’t like it—he wasn’t used to being kept in the dark and he didn’t like the idea of Ippolita putting herself in danger—but Aurelia was sure; she had seen her resolve, the strength of her affection for him. Knew from experience what that affection could inspire.

The next day, her confidence was rewarded. _Otranto_.

Armed with the location of the Ottoman raid and proof of Riario’s duplicity—his attempts to self-servingly keep the information from the king in order to bring about the downfall of his enemy—Lorenzo appeared before Ferrante and told him all. It was enough to buy him an extra day while the king proved the veracity of the claims. To that effect, he sent his favored son, Enrico, to the eastern town along with ships and a contingent of men to await the supposed raid. By morning, rumor was reality—Enrico was dead, Riario had been sent away in disgrace, and Lorenzo had his freedom and his treaty.

Florence was saved.

* * *

_Now_

“We need to talk about Lorenzo.” The way Lucrezia said it made Aurelia wish for Ferrante. At least the king didn’t look at her so knowingly, with a whole lifetime’s worth of familiarity. She sat herself down in one of the chairs, stared expectantly at Aurelia to do the same, and when she didn’t, went on with a little shrug as if to say _have it your way_. “There was talk while you were gone, despite your letter and your stories. Even the Council got to hearing about it. Your brother. What were you _thinking_ , running off with him in the middle of the night?”

She didn’t like how that made her sound, like she was nothing but an unthinking girl, foolish and naïve. “It wasn’t _running off_ ,” she defended. “There was a siege coming.”

“And you thought you would help. Fine. But did you ever give a thought to your reputation? What Filippo might do if he felt your honor was in question? I had Tommaso Peruzzi coming into my home speaking of dalliances—the boy was so flustered he could barely get the word out, having to deliver such a message in front of Clarice. Yes, Clarice! She was distraught. Humiliated to have Lorenzo spoken of in such terms. You’re supposed to be her friend!”

She would have covered her ears if she could; she didn’t want to hear about Clarice. On purpose, she did her best to not even think of her, but there was a chance Clarice _did_ think, did consider her a friend. After all these years, she had so few of them. She was so reserved, kept to herself so diligently, devoted all her time to her children, her many acts of charity.

At the very least, she would have expected her not to sleep with her husband.

_She wasn’t supposed to find out._ But a part of Aurelia knew she’d been aware of the consequences when she went to bed with Lorenzo in Naples. _People talk_ , Valentina warned, and that talk had followed them home.

“So the damage is done!” she exclaimed, her voice brittle with guilt, hateful to her own ears. “I can speak to Filippo, I’ll assure him nothing happened—“

“Didn’t it? I suggest you get your stories straight, Aurelia, because Clarice is speaking to Lorenzo about you this very second.”

“Oh, don’t patronize, madonna!” The words came bitterly, half-spat, with a venom she had never used with Lucrezia before. It made the older woman freeze, had her blinking in shock as if Aurelia had reached over and slapped her across the face.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You _knew_!” Aurelia cried. “You _knew_ how I felt about him, you _knew_ what I was giving up—”

“Ah, but you gave it up! Of your own free will when you married Enrico Affini, when he married Clarice, making promises to care for her heart…”

“You never gave us a choice!”

“All right,” said Lucrezia, slapping her hand on the armrest of her chair. “Say you did marry, say his father and I had given you our blessing—where would he be? Lorenzo has what he has because he married an Orsini.”

“He loves me.” Aurelia said it with all the hard-won conviction of years. _None like you._ She believed him, she knew it was true. Lorenzo de’ Medici loved her, and nothing could change that, could wrest the treasured knowledge that her love was returned.

Lucrezia looked at her sadly. “Clarice loves him. Before that, Lucrezia Donati loved him, and Ippolita Sforza, but he has only one wife, and she is not the kind to share a husband.” She sighed, said, “It is my fault, really, for turning a blind eye. Lorenzo was so unhappy after Giuliano and I thought, ‘What’s the harm? They know what they’re doing.’ I was wrong—this cannot be allowed to continue. If you fracture his marriage, you leave him without Clarice’s protection, and I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t hurt her on purpose. Think of Filippo—he loves you, though you’ve never liked to admit it, and Lorenzo needs his support. Continue down this road and you risk severing the tie between our families forever.“

Aurelia shook her head. “No.” Furiously, she swiped at a traitorous tear and said, "I can’t give him up. Not now.”

“He was never yours, Aurelia. He was always meant for—”

“You’ve never thought I was good enough.” There it was—the old seed of resentment. The long-held grudge out in the open at last. How she loved the Medici! How she had wanted to be a part of their family, yet all the while there was an object at the corner of her vision, a shadow of doubt: why had they found her wanting?

Lucrezia stood from her chair and reached for her. Aurelia tried to flinch away, but Lucrezia was too swift, too determined. She gripped the tops of her arms with a firm, maternal touch, and coming face to face with her, Aurelia saw there were tears in her eyes also. “It was never about worth, Aurelia, it was about name—that’s how families like ours survive, not by being sentimental, but by forging alliances so strong no one would dare oppose us.” With one of her hands, she wiped at the wet skin of Aurelia’s cheek, smoothed back her hair the way she‘d done a million times for her as a child. “I love you like my own daughter—yes, I see now that you don’t believe me, but God knows you are as dear to me as Bianca, and it is because I love you that I tell you now: there is no future for you and Lorenzo, only heartbreak. Let him go, Aurelia. Let him go before you bring more trouble upon his head. You know it is the right thing to do—the _only_ thing to do.”

And then Aurelia truly began to cry, to fight to break free from Lucrezia’s grasp, but she only held her tighter, wrapped her arms around her in an embrace that broke the dam wide open and made the bitter tears run.

“I’m sorry, my dear.” Lucrezia’s voice wavered as she kissed Aurelia’s head, rubbed soothing circles into her shuddering back. “I am so very sorry—truly I am.”


	9. Part 9: Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fallout, Aurelia finds some peace - but dreams are hard to outrun.

_1484_

Faraldo disapproved when she told him, outside her brother Niccolò’s, that she favored a walk and that the carriage should go on without her. The grey-streaked guard shot a pointed look at the darkening sky and asked, “Are you certain, madonna?” Night fell quickly at this time of year. No doubt he was concerned for her safety, but Aurelia had been abroad for months. She wanted to breathe in the air and feel the stones beneath her feet, to see if Florence still felt like home.

“It is not a long way,” she assured him, “and it is one I know well.” He bowed, and with a chivalrous sweep of the arm that made the corners of her mouth quirk, left her to her own devices.

He was a good man, Faraldo, and faithful, despite having been thoughtlessly left behind in Genoa. She realized her mistake four years ago, when she and Paolo paid a summer visit and the guard approached her, all deep, gravelly voice and solemn expression to say, _With all due respect, Madonna Affini, there are sell-swords aplenty in this world and any one of them could keep thieves from doing away with portraits and the silver. I wish to serve a master, not an empty house._

Strange, but as a young married girl of sixteen she never paid any mind to her husband’s captain of the guard. She knew his face, knew his name, but they were details that slipped away, like oil on water. What relevance could they have held when she was so far from home, far from friends, and steeped in her own misery? But now she knew more than Faraldo’s name—she knew he had a sister in the convent of Santa Maria di Castello, that he had a wife, once, and a son who died in infancy. He had a soldier’s calling but he hated war and needless bloodshed. He liked to teach; he answered all of Paolo’s ceaseless questions and never lost his patience, not even after long rides or sleepless nights. She trusted him with her life, with her son’s life and with all her worldly possessions.

Perhaps it said something about Aurelia that she was now inordinately attached to some of her servants.

Halfway to her destination, a light flurry of snow began to fall and she threw her hood back to let the thin, white flakes brush against her cheeks and catch in her lashes. She caught a few in her hand but they turned to water in an instant and she laughed, shook her head at her own silly fancies. They were becoming a habit. She used to feel so restless all the time, but now Aurelia found that she could stare at a fixed point for hours, could spend entire days doing nothing—and, oh, how anything could bring her to tears: a piece of music, a child in arms, a common finch, a lovely day, a word of kindness.

Perhaps she was getting old, or, maybe, that first year after Naples had stripped her of armor, left her exposed, bare, and weary with nothing to stand between her and the barrage of feelings that followed: heartbreak, hopelessness, regret, shame. Disappointments, one after the other, piling at her feet.

No, Aurelia did not like thinking about that time. She’d run away for a reason—to Ferrara and Genoa, to the country and to Rome—and she did not care if doing so marked her a coward, if her frequent absences stoked the fires of curiosity instead of banking them. She couldn’t face Clarice, could not lock eyes with Lorenzo from across a crowded room and pretend they had not spoken the words they had spoken in Naples. Could not stomach the whispers and sidelong glances, the knowing looks from men she had graciously rejected, the ones that said, _But she’d play along if I were a Medici._

She was glad those days were in the past now. It had taken some time, but Florence no longer filled her with dread. She could come and go without drawing unwanted attention and, with the Salt War raging, the subject of a Medici mistress no longer held any interest.

And to think, when Filippo told her she may one day live to regret her headstrong nature, she had thought he was being melodramatic.

She quickened her steps. The movement, along with the icy bite of winter, helped Aurelia’s mind clear. Only one more corner to round and there it was—the familiar facade of Palazzo Peruzzi with her carriage out front and Faraldo at the ready with her parcels tucked under his arm.

This was her last stop of the day, and the one for which she’d been the most eager.

She took the packages, one much heavier than the other, and nodded at one of the Peruzzi guards. He let her in with all the ease of a frequent visitor, which she was. During the hard months after Naples, Lucetta had been her most zealous supporter. She had a contrarian streak, of course, but Aurelia knew it was more than a penchant for perverseness that made the older woman act in her defense. She was a true friend, and God certainly knew how few of those she had these days.

“My dear!” Lucetta exclaimed upon seeing her enter the visitor’s hall. “If only you knew what a den of dullards this city has been without you!” Aurelia laughed as they embraced. Lucetta’s smile was as lively as ever and her hands squeezed affectionately at the curve of Aurelia’s shoulders. That, more than the Duomo or the sound of Italian uttered in well-known streets, was what convinced her she was home.

She let Lucetta lead her to a pair of cushioned chairs by the warm fire. Aurelia took off her speckled cloak, draped it haphazardly over a nearby decorative pillar and set the two parcels on top. She noticed Lucetta’s gaze darting curiously to the two objects, but she said nothing about them, merely took hold of Aurelia’s hands with a twinkle in her eye mitigated only by the lightest touch of reproof. “You know, you have been away for so long I had half a mind to expect a letter saying you’d eloped with a fabulously rich Frenchman and were never to return.”

“Honestly, of all the things… They were a pair of funerals!” And stately affairs they were, at that. King Louis died just as she and Paolo arrived in France, and then, only three months later, Bona’s sister, the dowager queen Charlotte followed her husband in death. Aurelia stayed for the sake of her friend, for whom the loss of the Milanese regency and the imposed separation from her son was still a constant source of pain. So, really, even if she had so desired—which, she didn’t—taking up affairs with Frenchmen would hardly have been appropriate under the circumstances.

Lucetta did not seem to agree. “What, they don’t have handsome men at funerals?”

“Will you behave yourself long enough for me to give you your gift?” Aurelia asked.

“Mm, not likely, but I will have it anyway, thank you.”

Aurelia gave a fond shake of her head, but retrieved the larger of the two packages and set it in her companion’s lap. Eagerly, Lucetta untied the strings that held the wrappings in place to reveal an embossed cover of tanned leather, the six pears of the Peruzzi prominent in its center. She spared Aurelia a brief, wide-eyed look before beginning to turn the illuminated pages of the lavish book of hours. “Dear, you really shouldn’t have…”

But it was paltry compensation for everything the Peruzzi had done for her over the last four years and she only wished she could do more.

How did one repay friendship and loyalty? How could she even express the depth of her loneliness after being cut off from the Medici, of having thought, for one misguided moment, that all she ever wanted was within reach only to have it snatched away, misinterpreted, used against her with a relish she had never thought to expect?

Yes, she was an adulteress; yes, she had deeply hurt a woman who had done her no wrong, but it was no frivolous whim. No power grab, no trick.

_No one like you._

And the only person who had ever thought so was now lost to her forever.

So when Lucetta took her arm at church and stared down anyone who gave so much as a half-whisper in Aurelia’s direction, or when Tommaso looked at her as he used to, without judgment… Of course she felt bound. Theirs was a loyalty she would not soon forget, but she knew saying so would only make Madonna Peruzzi click her tongue and say something like, _Indebtedness is highly inelegant and I’ll not have it in my house._

Instead, she pretended to reach for the book with an impish expression and said, “Shall I take it back, then?”

“Absolutely not!” With a snap, Lucetta shut the covers and held the book tightly to her chest as if it were her own precious child. She sighed. “Tommaso will say it is much too extravagant… Is that for him?” Lucetta jerked her head to the small box left over her cloak and she nodded.

Lucetta smiled. “He is in the study, if you want to give it to him now. The way he gets lost in those ledgers is beyond me… Why don’t you see if you can make him come down for supper? You will dine with us, won’t you? Say you will—I’ve had absolutely no company since you left.”

“I very much doubt that.”

A _tsk_ and a wave of the hand. “None worth having.”

“All right, then.”

“Excellent! I will see that an extra place is set for you. Go on, I’m sure you remember the way.”

The study was a tucked-away room accessible only through a nondescript courtyard door and a short flight of stairs, but it was larger in proportion than the entryway would have one believe. Aurelia had seen it once before and decided on the spot that it was a philologist’s dream: the shelves brimmed with the handsome spines of a hundred books and a row of paned windows let in a bit of light. To their right, a large wooden desk bore the weight of account ledgers, inkpots, loose sheafs of paper, a single worn abacus, and an assortment of sharpened quills.

Tommaso Peruzzi presided over it all, golden head bent, oblivious to her presence in the doorway.

During her first visit to the palazzo, Lucetta had shown her around the public rooms, the long galleries with the family portraits, which was how Aurelia become acquainted with the image of the late Michele Peruzzi, Tommaso’s father and, even in death, Lucetta’s great love. He had the sort of face one could not help but like. There was a kindness to the eyes framed by laugh lines and a pensive turn to the mouth. A care, a wisdom. It was shocking, really, how one look at a portrait could make Aurelia feel as though she’d known the man.

“Is it a good likeness?” she asked his widow, just to be sure.

“Oh, yes. Sometimes I come here just to remember his face. You forget the little details, you know, with time…”

Physically, the blond, fine-featured Tommaso looked nothing like his father, but there was that same expression to the eyes, the same restraint, the same kindness. And wisdom, too. Aurelia felt foolish now for ever thinking herself so much the older and wiser in the face of his modest aspirations.

It was she who landed on rocks; he who stayed the course and not lost his way.

“Have you been stuck in here the last four months, then?” she asked, smiling slightly at his startled reaction.

“Madonna Valori, I did not hear you come in!”

Aurelia stepped into the room with the box hidden in the folds of her dress. “Your mother wishes to know if you’ll be joining us for supper. I think she sent me in case you had forgotten the way to your own dining room.”

Tommaso put his quill to the side, brow raised. “I _do_ leave this room, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure. There’s the Palazzo Vecchio, the bank, home, because even accountants need their sleep on occasion, bank again in the morning, council meetings in the afternoon…”

He laughed as he set about ordering his desk. The movements were well-practiced: paper gathered into neat piles, lid on the inkwell, quills returned, ledger secured… When he was done, he brushed off his hands. They were ink-stained. The detail struck her fondly for some reason. “Well, not all of us would know what to do with ourselves at a French court.”

“Right now it’s wear black and do whatever the Lady Anne says.” Like Lucetta, she waved her hand before walking to the windows to peer at the snow. It was falling more heavily now. Some of it brushed against the glass before fluttering down into the street. Impulsively, she added, “Perhaps you and your mother would like to come along next time.”

Tommaso _hmm_ ed absently. He had moved to stand next to her in the space between the desk and the windows. He stared out at the evening sky. “You were missed, madonna.”

A passive expression, reserved, polite, and she would have let it pass as simple courtesy if not for what Aurelia spotted behind his shoulder on a small, round table tucked away in front of the bookshelves.

“You kept our game?”

He glanced at the chessboard, shifting uncomfortably. “Oh—well… yes, we never finished.”

Aurelia stepped around him to get a closer look, noted that someone must have taken great pains to move it from the table in the visitor’s hall—where they usually played—and to keep the dust away for months. It was a sweet gesture and she was touched by the thought that he might indeed have missed her, that he may have spared them a thought now in then, in between all his tasks and duties.

“I’ve brought you something.” She turned away from the table to hold out the velvet-wrapped gift box.

He frowned. “There really was no need.”

“That _is_ the general nature of gifts, yes.”

He smiled at her teasing, asked, “Shall I open it?” and waited for her to nod before extracting the slim wooden box from its velvet pouch. The polished cedar gleamed in the lamplight and Tommaso shot her an inquisitive look before opening the lid. He froze. “It…” he stopped, glanced at her, glanced back at the box, then lifted the silver-and-brass astrolabe to the light. Aurelia knew little about astronomy, but even she could recognize the fine craftsmanship of the Parisian metalworker, the balanced weight, the precision of the tympan engraving.

Part of the reason she had so struggled in deciding what to get for Tommaso was because many of his interests lay far beyond her remit—he worked mathematical puzzles for pleasure, kept astronomical maps, read treatises on solid geometry. Even the way he played chess was unlike anything she had ever seen. _Some see chess as battle strategy_ , he explained once. _To me, it is story._ He moved his pieces curiously, with no thought of winning, only of finding out what came next.

That said, he did win, and often.

Tommaso cleared his throat. He didn’t seem to know what to say, so he busied himself with replacing the astrolabe in the box, closing the lid, touch lingering upon the gently beveled surface. His gaze lingered there, too.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “It is too much, but I will accept it gratefully if that is what you wish.” In profile, she watched him hesitate and she waited with bated breath—for what, she was not certain. He tapped at the box once, twice, then turned to the door. “Shall we go down? You know how Mother hates to be kept waiting.” Aurelia smiled and let him lead her down but was disturbed at finding herself disappointed, unable, even, of giving name to what she expected, or worse—of what it was that she had wanted him to say.

* * *

Despite unexpectedly switching sides and signing a treaty with Naples during the first year of war, Pope Sixtus still allowed his rabid dog of a nephew to go up and down Italy doing exactly as he pleased and without consequence. While Venice continued its expansion efforts, Florence sent Duke Este a contingent of troops to help him fend off the combined forces of Riario and Sanseverino, but there was a general feeling among most of the involved that the conflict had dragged on for too long and that it would be in everyone’s best interest to come to some sort of agreement. To that end, Lorenzo called for a peace conference to be held in Florence that summer.

For her part, Aurelia was doing her best to adjust to quiet life back home. She missed the bustle of Paris, the observed machinations at Amboise, but she knew she could not spend the rest of her life as someone else’s guest. Paolo needed stability and direction and, more than that, he needed a purpose if he was to be more than another lazy man of leisure.

Banking wasn’t for him—that was made obvious after four days following Tommaso around the Peruzzi bank. “It is so _boring_ ,” he bemoaned with all the disgust a fifteen-year-old could muster. And politics, though interesting enough in the days when he could debate with Poliziano, held little interest in practice. “Besides,” said Paolo, “Bartolomeo needs the Priori seat more than I do. Uncle Filippo would probably disown him if he didn’t get it.”

Aurelia said nothing because she knew it was true.

In the end, blood won out; as much as she tried assuring her son that he needn’t go into trade just because of his father, it genuinely seemed to suit. He enjoyed people: he liked hearing about their distant lands, sounding out their tongues, was surprisingly good at catching anyone in a lie, and was not put off by the coarse manners of men who spent years at a time at sea.

He was still a little young for it, Aurelia thought, but he was eager, and he convinced her to let him go to Naples, of all places, to apprentice as soon as he turned sixteen.

“Has the dread set in yet? The pit in your stomach, the desire to lock the doors and throw the keys into a blazing fire?”

“Oh, please don’t mention fire,” Aurelia groaned out.

She and Lucetta had gotten together at Palazzo d’Affini to work on some embroidery for San Marco, but the heat proved intolerable and their needles lay forgotten on a low table at the other end of the room. Lucetta was stretched out on a couch fanning herself vigorously. She lifted a hand to wipe at the damp skin of her forehead while Aurelia poured them each another glass of chilled spiced wine and admitted, a note of sheepishness in her voice, “The other day I did think about his eventual wedding and nearly worked myself into a paroxysm.”

Lucetta’s laugh was a half-snort. “He is such a handsome boy! You could find him a pretty nobleman’s daughter with brothers destined to untimely ends. Just imagine—an Affini duke—maybe even a princess or two…”

For a moment, Aurelia entertained the fantasy. Her son done up in ermine, her great-granddaughters rising to the peaks of European society… She was thirty, but she still had the occasional girlish flight of the imagination and she still longed for something… more.

She knew now that was part of the reason why she’d fallen so in love with Lorenzo. Like her, he was a dreamer, but his prospects had always been so much wider and she mourned those—felt the loss of the woman she could have been as his wife—as much as she mourned the man himself.

She tilted her head at Lucetta. “If you really thought that was the best way, you’d be sitting with your own noble daughter-in-law and not here with me.”

“You speak as though I have not tried! Tommaso refuses to marry for advantage. Can you believe he finds it dishonest?” Lucetta drank a bit more wine, then pressed the cool, wet glass to her cheek. “That son of mine… I adore him to death but he lacks ambition, just like his father…” Her gaze took on a faraway look and Aurelia could tell that, despite her exasperation, she was happy Tommaso turned out the way he did. So was Aurelia.

“The world has more ambitious men than it needs,” she said, “and not nearly enough good ones.” Lucetta mulled over this for a while.

“And what of ambitious women?”

Before she could ponder the question, a timid Giosetta appeared in the open doorway, her hands behind her back. “Sorry, Madonna, but you have another visitor.”

“Who—" Aurelia began, then spotted the man behind her. “Sandro!” she exclaimed. “Sandro Botticelli, as I live and breathe, you’re supposed to be in Rome!”

The grinning painter entered, arms wide, and swept her into a bracing brotherly hug. “Not anymore. I’ve finished my commissions for the Pope and am now free to seek my next inspiration.”

She waved Lucetta forward. “Sandro, this is Madonna Peruzzi. I told you about her when we visited two years ago.”

He bowed. “Madonna.”

“Maestro, what an honor. You come home quite the celebrity.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that…”

“Nonsense! Modesty is very unattractive in an artist.”

Sandro’s obvious consternation made Aurelia laugh. “I’m afraid Botticelli is not that kind of an artist. He paints to glorify God.”

Lucetta made a face. “Well, that’s unfortunate. You know what else this world has enough of, dear?—Priests. And with that… I shall take my leave.”

“Give Tommaso my best when he goes to Ferrara. Do let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

Lucetta waved her goodbyes, gathered her things, and left. The room’s silence was deafening without her. Sandro felt it, too. He remained staring at the doorway long after Lucetta had gone. “She seems…”

Aurelia chuckled, grabbed Sandro’s arm fondly. “She is _perfect_ —as are you, my friend. I’ve been very happy to hear how well it’s gone for you in Rome.”

“Be that as it may, I am glad to be home. And not only because the last time you wrote you said Paolo had become taken in by a… What was his name? Monsieur Poyer? We can’t be having that—he is meant to be my most loyal admirer!”

“You are still unmatched in his esteem, I assure you.”

“Is he at home?”

“No,” replied Aurelia, “he has gone to see his cousin.”

“Good,” and, at her quizzical expression: “I have something of yours. Wait here.”

Sandro went out of the room—she heard him briskly exchanging words with someone, the phrase “ _be careful!_ ” repeated several times—only to return a moment later with a portable easel. He propped it in front of the couch while, behind him, her servant Rodrigo carried in a large object draped in a white sheet. It was as tall as he was and half as short across.

“A painting?” she asked, hardly able to believe it. But in the next instant, excitement turned to uncertainty.

“ _The_ painting,” Sandro declared. “The one I promised. I started it after you and Paolo came to see me in Rome.”

“Oh, Sandro, I don’t know…” At the time, she thought his sketches were idle doodles, things to keep his restless hands busy while they spoke in his workshop. Now that she knew he’d made a piece from them, she scrambled to remember her frame of mind, the things she’d said. Of course, they had talked about Lorenzo.

Sandro noticed her discomfort. “I can take it away if you want. You would never have to see it, but… I wish you would.”

She saw in his face that he meant it, that if she gave the word he would forsake all sense of artistic pride, remove the painting and never bring it up again. But, like the fruit of knowledge, she would know it was there. The picture’s existence would nag at her with its awful promise—awful, because she did still expect a crushing revelation, a depiction of all her faults, her shortcomings. _It was never about worth_ , said Lucrezia. But a part of her—and it was a part of which she was not proud—had hoped Lorenzo would flout his mother’s counsel and come to her. That he would forsake all other considerations and tell her again that he loved her, that he would find a way, brave the odds, because she was just that important…

 _See? Another girlish fantasy_. If selfish foolery was what awaited her beneath that sheet, then so be it. It was no less than she deserved. 

“I want to see it.”

“Are you sure?”

A pause. “Is this going to ruin our friendship?”

“Ours?” Sandro smiled through his full beard, his eyes crinkling kindly at the corners. “Impossible.”

And then he pulled the sheet and Aurelia’s breath caught in her throat.

Her first feeling was one of disorientation. It was no mere portrait—she would never have felt so if he’d done something as straightforward as the pictures that hung in the great hall of Palazzo Valori. It was a chimera made of paint and panel, half Aurelia, half someone else entirely. “Does it have a name?” she barely managed to ask.

Sandro’s hushed reply: “ _Camilla_.”

Yes, she saw it now. The halberd in hand; the fleet feet made for running; the dense forest that became her home after her father, the deposed King Metabus, promised her to the goddess Diana in exchange for her safety. And there she remained until death—a virgin warrior, a huntress making pacts with men. She was beautiful. Laurel climbed up her arms and chest and made a crown at her head. No other finery covered her body, only a loose, gauzy gown and a large shield at her back partially obscured by flowing waves of long, red hair.

_And what of ambitious women?_

There was some of that in the eyes, too. A canny alertness, a great purpose unbent by exile or loneliness or sorrow or time. Like the great forest trees, they were Valori green, but the expression could not possibly be hers… Could it?

She said, “You have painted a paragon, my friend.”

Sandro had given her space to inspect the painting but now he drew near, solemn, the way he always became around his creations. “I promised you the truth as I saw it, Aurelia. I have painted what I meant.”

His answer dismayed. “But she…” Aurelia looked from him to the woman and back again. She didn’t want to articulate the dissonance, to give voice to what she truly felt; neither did she want to wound Sandro dignity, but it was looking like a choice between one or the other. “But she is not real.”

“She is to me. You always thought it was Lorenzo who saw you best, and maybe that’s true—he certainly has a vision unlike anyone else. But you do not cease to be this without the Medici. Did you know your name is spoken of in Rome? The women you write share your words with others. You are respected, Aurelia.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not here. You don’t know what it was like—”

“Do you know how many mistresses there are in Florence? I’m sorry, but if they picked apart at your shame it was only because you let them. Whatever you did in Naples kept this city from ruin, but you never let yourself believe it. All you ever saw was him.”

She had upset him. Her normally mild-tempered Sandro pushed a hand through his hair, turned in a circle, gave a heavy sigh. “I understand it, Aurelia, I do. A Medici in a room is like a blinding sun. But the rest of us… We are allowed to matter without them. It is why I went to Rome—I wanted to prove to myself that I could still be a great painter without Lorenzo. And you… You have the entire world in your hands. A life… You could fall in love again.”

“Says the man who has sworn off marriage…”

“By my own choice,” he chastised. “Not as punishment.” That quieted her. Sandro softened. “Lorenzo has had a full life. He has a wife who loves him, children, a home. You needn’t be alone forever just to prove a point.”

“I’ve tried!” she exclaimed. Wherever she went, she tried to find ways to forget him but no one else compared, and Aurelia was starting to wonder whether what she had told Lorenzo in Naples had a touch of prophecy. Perhaps she would never love anyone else; perhaps she was unable.

“No, you haven’t.” He said it gently, the way she sometimes spoke to Paolo when he was being stubborn on purpose. He motioned towards _Camilla_ with a resigned expression. “If you had, you would see yourself in that painting.”

* * *

She kept it—not displayed and without a frame, which must have made Sandro agonize on the inside, he being so particular about the treatment of his paintings upon delivery—but she was still uncertain about it, still resentful, childish though she knew it was, of the confidence of its subject. Of her beauty. The resilience apparent in her gaze. The quiet strength. All she felt when she saw it was her own inadequacy.

Aurelia did not have long to wallow in self-pity. Riario struck Ferrara with a suddenness that made her worry for Eleanora and Marcella, and then she remembered Tommaso. He had gone on behalf of the Ten to deliver Este’s invitation to the peace conference. As a member of the Council, his capture would be a boon for Riario, and if his aim was to halt the peace talks he could do it easily with Tommaso’s murder.

Lucetta was beside herself, but not in the frenetic, hysterical way of many other women when placed in similar positions. No, she was all steady rage. "That man is a parasite, a scourge upon this earth,” she spat, referring to the Lord of Imola, now also Count of Forlì. “And shame on his uncle for shielding him this long. If anything should happen to my son…” Aurelia took her hand. She was sure Riario would be no match for Lucetta, but for Tommaso’s sake she hoped her vengeful intervention would never be needed.

For a few terrible days, they were sure the worst had come to pass. The duke and his family were safe, thank God, having been away from the city entirely when Riario invaded, but there were tales of a massacre on the road leading out of Ferrara, a slaughter of Florentine families. Having been ordered out of the city and promised safe passage, the count went back on his word and had his soldiers ambush them on horseback, swords drawn, killing women and children as well as men. The word was that no one could possibly have survived.

But Tommaso did. Aurelia did not know how—she didn’t ask, and neither did his mother after the first few times. In the beginning, he merely shook his head, hand upon his lips, as though the truth were too horrible to speak. Then, he vaguely described being rescued by one of the Medici sell-swords, but when Lucetta pressed him for more details, he had snapped unexpectedly, a rare show of anger from a man usually so composed.

“We may never know exactly what happened. It goes against my nature, but if not speaking means he will soon forget it, then I will banish my curiosity for once, and let him keep his own counsel.” She and Lucetta parted in the visitor’s hall. It was late. The twilight sky was visible through the windows, a smattering of stars twinkling calmly, and Aurelia stopped halfway through the courtyard to stare. They reminded her of the charts engraved onto the discs of the astrolabe.

Tommaso had looked so troubled when he stepped through the doors. Not shaken, though such a reaction would have been understandable given how Riario had almost succeeded in having him killed. It was more than that. He seemed… burdened. Guilty, she realized.

 _We may never know exactly what happened,_ but whatever it was, Tommaso Peruzzi felt himself responsible. For the butchering of dozens.

It was that thought that sent her feet towards the study stairs. How could he ever think himself responsible? It was Riario’s doing; the nefarious plan was his and no one else’s. Tommaso would have done anything to save those people, even give his own life if need be—she knew that, his mother knew it. Did he himself doubt it?

She took the steps without knowing what she meant to do or say, whether her presence would do more harm than good, but she continued upwards, drawn by the call of feelings she knew all too well. The circumstances were vastly different. Tommaso was faultless whereas her burdens were of her own making, but guilt always weighed the same. It weighed and it sank and clawed just as one caught a glimpse of hope. And it was lonely—it was that most of all.

The door was open, so she saw his bent head, the sagging slope of his shoulders. A single lamp burned, casting a faint glow over its immediate space but throwing the rest of the room into shadow. Deliberately, Aurelia allowed her footfalls to sound upon the stone flags. Still he did not move—not when she took up a chair and dragged it to the windows, not when she sat, back to the incoming moonlight and watched for the minute movements, the rise and fall of his chest that told her he was alive, at least. That was always something.

“I can go, if you want,” she said after a while.

Slowly, Tommaso released the hand at his temple. "No. Stay.”

* * *

Lorenzo got his hoped-for peace. Riario’s actions were so egregious that Sixtus was forced to bargain with his once-enemy and accept his invitation to the conference, no longer to be held in Florence, but in the more neutral territory of Bagnolo. While he was away, his mother, Lucrezia, died. Aurelia received the news through a note written in Clarice de’ Medici’s own hand. The means unsettled her as much as the message.

The morning of the funeral, she got up, dressed as if by rote, and ended up in the garden sitting at the fountain of Minerva with her hands clenched into fists. Gianpaolo had gone earlier to be with his grieving friends, with Piero and Giuliano, Giulio and Maddalena.

 _At least I have not ruined that._ A small mercy, but she was desperate for them.

A half hour later, Valentina came near in her fine black gown. “We ought to be going soon, shouldn’t we?” The question made a sick fluttering awaken in Aurelia’s stomach. She looked to her companion.

“In a little while,” she replied, but it was hollow. Valentina pursed her lips, nodded wordlessly, and went back inside.

Aurelia observed, _She looks a true lady now_ , watching the tall, slim lines of her former maid’s back. After Naples, it seemed silly for her to continue airing Aurelia’s dresses and taking in her trays; it was a waste of her talents, and frankly, she knew too much. How could Aurelia continue playing the part of superior when Valentina was clearly the better woman? So she’d given her books and clothes and education, a position as lady’s companion, and an allowance that would enable her to care for her family back in Genoa. They were penance offerings; bribery, some would call it. But Valentina had not left her. Not yet.

She was being maudlin—she knew it and she disapproved, imagined a row of recriminating faces saying, _Chin up and do your duty!_ But she was frozen with fear at the prospect of facing up to her mistakes. It was easier when she told herself running was the noble thing to do, that Clarice should not have to see the face of yet another woman who had tried taking her husband, that Aurelia herself needed time to forget how close she had come to having Lorenzo, to make peace with her loss.

But the thing about running was that, at some point, she had to stop.

 _I am not ready._ She thought of Sandro’s painting hidden under a sheet in her room. If she’d been Camilla, she would have gone to Lucrezia and made peace, would not have pretended not to know what she was doing when she spent time alone with Lorenzo, when she went with him to Ferrante, when she broke Clarice’s trust. The woman in the painting would never have done those things—she would have suffered the weight of old regrets and learned to move on or, if not, to live with them gracefully.

She looked down at her clenched fists. _Let go_ , she willed, but they would not.

The garden door opened. She was so on edge that the quiet sound made her jump. Tommaso crossed the loggia, entered the hedges, walked the paved garden path towards the fountain. “I came to ask if you will ride with us to church,” he said. “Mother is waiting in the carriage.“

"That is very kind, but there’s no need. I am not going.” She said it without thinking: instinct, perhaps. _Keep running just a little longer._ Tommaso frowned, confused. He still wore the heaviness of Ferrara around his eyes, and in daylight, she noticed something else, too, something akin to anger. A resistance in the mouth that was not there before he left. But, with her, his tone was all carefulness. “May I ask why?" 

She looked away, to the hedge wall beyond along which she and Lorenzo used to walk. The sun in his hair… _A Medici in a room is like a blinding sun._

But Aurelia had not been blinded. She knew who he was, the faults as well as the virtues, and she loved him—utterly, completely, in a way that defied reason, morality, practicality, even. She was not blinded… but she did torch herself to be with him—and had it all been for nothing?

She answered: "We parted badly. I cannot simply…”

“You will regret it if you don’t.”

She knew Tommaso was right. Still a voice pulled, saying, _What is one regret more?_

Tommaso was silent for a moment. “Is it Madonna Clarice?” The letter burned a hole in her skirts at the mention. She must have folded and unfolded it a hundred times since receiving it, sometimes just to study the handwriting. It was neat and pretty, no flourish, but steady. “She is a decent woman. She would not turn you away.”

“I would, if I were her.”

“I don’t believe that.”

They were approaching dangerous territory. She knew Tommaso could not be unaware of Naples; after all, it was he who told Clarice about the rumors—about the “dalliance.” _He was so flustered he could barely get the word out._ But she wouldn’t know it if not for Lucrezia. He never brought it up, never questioned. The thought of Tommaso thinking less of her was terrifying, yet his unchanging kindness wore at her because she knew it was not deserved.

“I have no interest in gossip, Madonna Valori. Whatever… happened…” He paused, uncomfortable. She heard his intake of breath before continuing: “Whatever quarrel there was between you and Clarice, it is in the past now. You have had a common loss—someone you both loved very much has died, and Lorenzo… Lorenzo is not here to help her carry that burden.”

There was a steeliness in the way he said Lorenzo’s name, a loaded halt, but Aurelia chalked it up to unease at broaching such a private subject. A knot weighed in her throat. Sandro was the only person in whom she confided, but not even they spoke of Clarice; she felt ashamed to, remembered all too clearly the day when she’d smiled at her, relieved at the prospect of friendship, overcome by impending motherhood, and said _thank you_.

The knot tugged painfully. _Speak_ , it said. _Let it go_. And because she was tired to her bones, she let the words escape in one single, trembling rush. 

"I am afraid I have wronged her very greatly, Tommaso, and I cannot undo it, and I cannot say that I would take all of it back, because I wouldn't— _I wouldn’t_ —though I am very sorry to have ever caused her pain. Don’t you see? I am not the person you think I am.”

Or Sandro, or Lucetta, or Valentina, or her brothers or her son, or that damned painting she hid in her room, for that matter. She was nothing but a jumble of thwarted longings, indecisive, discontent, a hypocrite and a coward.

Tommaso met her gaze without flinching. “I think you have had many disappointments and done your best to bear them. I think Lucrezia loved you like a daughter, regardless of how things ended between you. And”—he allowed himself a gentle smile—“I think if you really intended to miss her funeral, you would not have bothered to dress.”

The bit of lightness made the knot loosen. She took one steadying breath and Tommaso held out his hand. “Come to Mass, Aurelia. You will not be alone.”

Bit by bit, her fist uncurled. She was still afraid, but she latched onto that promise. _You will not be alone_. She had made it this far at a run—what would stillness feel like?

Camilla—all long, tumbling hair; courage, above all.

Sandro, with full conviction: _She is real to me_.

And Tommaso.

_You have done your best._

Aurelia took his hand. The letter no longer burned. It weighed, and she let it, allowed it to fill her with purpose. The past was gone, but she could do this one thing—her best, at least today.


	10. Part 10: Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As change overtakes Florence, Aurelia reckons with the past and decides on a new course for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. Thank you so much for reading.

It registered, in a remote corner of Aurelia’s mind, that she no longer recognized the guards at Palazzo Medici. They were unknown to her, and she, in turn, was unknown to them. This alone should have given her pause. Impeding strange, agitated women from pushing into the home of the man who paid their wages was sure to be part of their remit, but, like the Orsi storming into the government palace of Forlì, she paid them—or the bewildered boy who watched and followed—no consideration. Her goal was clear: _there’s a lot you could get up to in a study._

Up ahead, the square of dull winter light spilling through the open study doors widened. There was a fire in the grate. If she’d stopped to look, she would have seen a distressed Botticelli standing by the bookcases. Aurelia, though, had eyes for only one man.

He was different. It wasn’t simply age—it was weight and weariness and… guilt.

The sight of it pushed her forward, open-handed, to deliver the _crack_ that sounded like cannon-fire in the quiet room. Her palm stung, and though the blow gave her a hollow satisfaction, his averted face, the resigned expression of his eyes—still the most beautiful shade of blue Aurelia had ever seen—filled her with a rage she could not temper.

“What did you do?” she cried, hoarse and ragged. Behind her, Sandro tried grabbing at her arms, but she was flailing, half-mad, her fists hitting uselessly at whatever part of Lorenzo they could reach, and all the while, the same anguished question: _“What did you do? What did you do?”_

The worst part was, in looking at him, she knew Lorenzo could not believe he’d done it either.

* * *

_1488_

Having well outlived all other conspirators, the della Rovere pope and his nephew met their ends within four years of one another: first, Sixtus, not a week after Bagnolo from causes as pedestrian as old age and disappointment; then Riario, whose death being neither peaceful nor pedestrian was far more deserved, “…for all they that take the sword shall perish by the sword.”

It was not a very Christian sentiment, but Aurelia found more comfort in the gruesome details—the number of assassins, the flouting of the guards, the weapons used, the body thrown out the window and into the public square—than any prayer she had ever offered in Giuliano’s name. For him, spite was a friend rather than a flaw to be remedied, so why should mercy have been the more fitting prescription?

 _Serves him right_ , he would have said of his murderer. _If only I’d been there to give the old rat the final heave._

On the twenty-sixth of April, two weeks after the assassination and on the anniversary of their deaths, Aurelia made her yearly visits to Simonetta’s and Giuliano’s tombs. She liked going in the early morning when she was certain of not being disturbed, and there, all alone, she lit candles, spoke to them in her thoughts the way she used to do out loud when they were alive. Mostly, she went to remember.

_You forget the little details, you know, with time._

It was certainly proving true of their faces. The exact blue of Giuliano’s eyes was beginning to elude her, for instance, but his voice… Oh, his voice was unmistakable as ever, and after all these years, she could still recall the exact scent of roses that Simonetta used to wear. But these little details, too, were not immune to the effects of time or age or forgetting.

Aurelia was thirty-five now, no longer considered young, and she saw proof of it in the lines of her face, the shadowed angles, the awareness of the gaze. She saw it in her brothers and in her friends, in her son’s generation, rising to take their place. She lifted her hand to the cross at her neck. _Soon, I’ll have nothing left to do but wait for time to catch up to me._ Then she smiled, recalled to whom the cross belonged before Clarice put it in her hands the day of the funeral—Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici would never stoop to wait for anyone, let alone time.

She heard steps echoing against the white marble of the chapel. It was Valentina, come to remind her of the time, as requested. “It is past noon, madonna.”

Looking at her, one would never know she started life as a glassmith’s daughter. Her long, blond hair fell behind her shoulders in glossy ringlets, and her once-calloused fingers bore gold rings. If time decided to be as kind to Aurelia as it was to Valentina Gaspardi, then she would learn to be satisfied and thank God for it. She stood. “I know, I know. I didn’t mean to stay so long, but I couldn’t bear to leave.”

“They’re probably waiting on you to return.”

Aurelia snorted, shielding her face against the high noon sun as she stepped out of Ognissanti and into the waiting carriage. “With Filippo there they’ve probably started without me.”

It was her day to host the family. She wasn’t looking forward to it, but the custom of weekly gatherings had stuck even if no one seemed to enjoy them. At the very least, she figured she’d have a chess game with Tommaso after they finished and, being an afternoon meal, the rest of the evening could be spent as she pleased. There was a letter from the Lady Anne she was particularly dying to read; the conflict between the regency council of France and the lords led by Louis d’Orléans had riveted Aurelia for years.

The carriage took off. Next to her, Valentina regarded her studyingly, then asked, over the sound of the rattling wheels: “Did you have a good visit, then?”

The truth was she was having a good year—there was a looseness in her chest that felt fit to stay, as if the pieces of her life were finally drifting into place. She locked arms with Valentina, who, no longer embarrassed by these little intimacies with a woman whose darning she’d once done, leaned into it as a proper friend would. “Yes,” Aurelia happily replied. “Yes, I did.”

* * *

Two hours later, she had her head in her hands, an ache in her jaw, and a pressing urge to grab both her brothers by the ear and throw them out into the street. “All I’m saying, Filippo—no, I let _you_ speak! All I’m saying is Savonarola would do better to pray quietly in San Marco than yelling on church steps like a madman and stirring up unrest!”

“What _unrest_? What unrest could the friar possibly stir that has not already existed for years? In case you hadn’t noticed, we are being taxed as if we were still at war!”

Niccolò’s hand flew dramatically to his chest. His tone dripped in open mockery as he said, “Oh, I _do_ beg your pardon, I had no idea our family were in such dire straits! I must have misunderstood the pretty new sapphires your wife wore to Mass on Sunday.”

A heavy silence, then, all but growled: “You are an infant and a fool.”

“Behold, two masters of rhetoric…” Across the chessboard she saw Tommaso’s mouth quirk at her muttering and that alone was enough to loose the tension in her jaw.

If they were at Palazzo Peruzzi, they would be playing alone, the board set up in his study so he could catch up on work for the bank or the Ten. It was her favorite part of the week—the peaceful company, the focus of the game—and Lucetta never thought to comment on their lack of a chaperone. She knew her son was decorous to a fault. Filippo didn’t. On occasions like these, propriety won the upper hand against privacy, even at the expense of pleasure or concentration. Tommaso rubbed a hand across his jaw, sighed, “This is pointless, isn’t it?”

“I can barely hear myself think. But I would say that, wouldn’t I, considering you’re four moves away from beating me.”

He grinned. It was boyish and charming and she really ought to be immune at this point in her life. “I could do it in less, actually.”

She looked down, frowned. It took her a minute, but there it was: checkmate in two. “I see,” she laughed, glancing back at him.

“Either way, I resign. I’m beginning to think we should be fearful of being in a room full of sharp cutlery.”

Aurelia leaned back in her chair as he began clearing the board. The screaming, spittle-laced belligerents she called family were still going strong and she nodded in their direction. “I’m glad we never sound like that when we argue about the friar.”

“We don’t argue—we discuss.”

She shot him an arch look, amended, “ _You_ discuss. I argue.”

“And Mother lays down the law.” They shared a smile which turned into a wince at the sound of rattling glass and a banging fist. Tommaso quickly shut the chess box, and together they left the dining room for the greater safety of the garden. Outside, it was a perfect spring afternoon. Her sisters-in-law and Lucetta sat in chairs by the western wall of cypress trees. Ginevra spotted their entrance and pointed out the spare seats in their circle, but Tommaso didn’t notice and Aurelia refrained from pointing them out. _In a minute_ , she conveyed with a look. Her ears were still ringing. She wanted to enjoy a bit of quiet for as long as she could.

It wasn’t just her brothers. Savonarola was a topic of contention all over the city and the picking apart of his sermons was becoming something of a civic pastime in Florence. There were those, like Filippo, who were true believers, and though Tommaso had his reservations, he also believed the friar was sincere and on the right path, particularly when it came to advocating for the poor.

If only he didn’t champion the destruction of secular works… There was nothing wrong with the Ephesians, of course, but even God knew better than to try taking _Camilla_ off her study walls.

They set a pleasant pace. The hyacinths along the eastern path were in full bloom, the stalks high, the scent sweet. A few cheerful bees buzzed around, joining the chorus of birdsong that permeated through the garden during the warmer months. “Did you visit them today?” asked Tommaso.

He knew all about her yearly trips to San Lorenzo and Ognissanti. She’d even considered asking him to join her this time, but she changed her mind at the last minute, couldn’t find a way to ask that didn’t seem roundly improper. “I did,” she replied. “It felt… different, somehow.”

“Maybe you’re the one who’s different.”

They continued on, past the hedges and the mulberry trees.

Whenever her father or Filippo spoke of change, it was always in downward motion—be pliant, be still, be ordinary. It had taken most of her life for her to realize that change could move in all directions, that she could narrow without collapsing, bend without breaking, and a lot of that came from observing the resilience of her betters. Lucetta’s humor—Tommaso’s hope—Sandro’s openness—Valentina’s humble strength.

Lately, she thought a lot about her friend Bona, biding her time at the French court, nursing dreams of reclaiming her son and her regency, the power she felt she’d earned after years under her husband’s thumb. In a fair world, she would have everything she wanted—Gian, the ducal throne, her beloved Antonio besides—but she never would, just as Aurelia would never again have a place at the Medici table. Acceptance was bitter, but it was better than breaking, and it grew easier with time. If knowing that was change, then she was grateful for it.

She turned to Tommaso, noticed belatedly that he’d hung back to kick an errant stone off the path with the tip of his shoe. He caught her looking, smiled bashfully, a trace of his younger, more easily flustered self shining through as he explained, “Someone could trip over that.” A lock of hair fell into his eyes and a wave of affection took Aurelia by surprise, potent and pure. When had he become the person whose company she most enjoyed?

“Simonetta would have liked you.” His brow furrowed at the abrupt disclosure, but he was pleased by it all the same. She supposed they’d spoken of her friends so often that he probably felt as though he knew them.

“And Giuliano?” he asked, coming once more to her side. “I imagine I would be quite dull to someone of his interests.” The keen blue light of his eyes told her he was teasing, but she was distracted by that lock of hair and Giuliano’s voice in her head, the words coming so seamlessly it was hard to believe he never said them: _Peruzzi—that walking nap? Please don’t tell me you’re interested in an accountant!_

Her cheeks warmed. She cleared her throat and bent to pick a fallen leaf off the floor. Even in death, Giuliano de’ Medici refused to mind his own business. _He is not dull_ , she hissed at him in her head. It was a sentiment which, if she ever said aloud, would probably earn her a few quizzical stares. Tommaso would never be a favorite of the people—but then, most people were wrong.

He noted her embarrassment, took it as admission. “Perhaps I should enter next year’s lists and do my mother proud,” he joked.

“If that is your aim, you would do better paying Antonia Cappelli more mind.” She regretted the words as soon as she said them. Not only did Tommaso look at her strangely, but she could feel Giuliano reaching over from Heaven to tug rebukingly at her hair.

She pictured the roll of his eyes, the lifting of his arms that conveyed, _What are you_ doing _?_

Tommaso was quiet for a few excruciating seconds. Then he said, a little uncomfortably, “You do know I have no intention of paying court to Antonia Cappelli?”

“No, no, of course! I know that—I’m sorry, it was in poor taste.”

“Did my mother say—?”

“No!” she exclaimed, wanting to burrow into the flower beds, wondering why she was behaving like a sixteen-year-old. “I mean… She implied an interest…”

He frowned. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

Antonia Cappelli was twenty, beautiful and fair, her father a prosperous merchant from Mantua known to Madonna Risaliti. They’d been to dinner together on a few occasions, and it was clear to her from the outset that Messer Cappelli wanted a well-off Florentine for his daughter, that he’d taken a liking to Tommaso, and so had Antonia.

“I was probably meant to take it lightly and misunderstood,” she said, not wanting Lucetta to take the blame for her folly, though she did recall the sly smile and the words “I may get my rich daughter-in-law yet.” At the time, Aurelia attributed the flash of discomfort she felt to a friend’s protectiveness, but now she wasn’t sure. The thought of Tommaso marrying, of their quiet evenings coming to an end because he had a wife to tend to, made her chest tighten unpleasantly.

“We should probably head back.” She was Pandora trying to close the box, but Tommaso stood in place, eyes fixed upon her.

“I have no interest in Antonia.”

“I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do. Aurelia…”

She began turning back. “Really, Tommaso, you don’t have to explain.”

“Will you not let me?” He grasped her hand, stopped her mid-turn. There was a look to him that she recognized, a vulnerability in his face that made her heart pound, fearful and expectant all at the same time. He raised his free hand carefully, brushed her hair back, the side of his thumb tantalizing against the skin of her cheek. “You’re so beautiful.”

How could anyone ever find him dull? she marveled. He was clever and wonderful and there were flecks of green in his eyes and her pulse was racing and he was looking at her with a wistfulness that made her pull at the front of his doublet and brought his lips crashing down on hers.

Antonia Cappelli could find herself another Florentine. This one cupped the back of her neck. Her hands slid down his chest, and he certainly didn’t kiss like a boring accountant. Tommaso angled himself closer, kissed deeper, and the bare touch of his fingers sliding up her arm, her shoulder and jaw, the hand in her hair, the way he pulled away with obvious difficulty, eyes shut, breathing deeply, made her blood thrum in a way it had not done in years.

His eyes fluttered open. He shook his head as if steeling himself, and in the next moment his lips parted and he said, “I love you.”

* * *

It took a few days, but Aurelia managed to swallow her pride long enough to apprise Sandro of the latest development. He peeked at her over his easel with an expression she could only describe as smug and said, “Well!” It was the single most loaded syllable she’d heard in years.

She ought to be gracious and let him have his fun—after all, Sandro rarely got the chance to hold something over her head or say “I told you so”—but she was feeling silly enough without his full-bearded grin and the mirthful twinkle in his eye that only added to her general sense of awkwardness. No one had ever asked for Aurelia’s hand in marriage before. Her union with Enrico was arranged by her father based on factors as impersonal as her youth and her dowry, her assumed ability to bear the Affini a living heir. There had been no romance, no passion; even his visits to her bed had been transactional and without fuss. But it wouldn’t be the same with Tommaso. If he’d waited this long, far longer than other men of his class, it was only because he desired a marriage like the one his parents enjoyed—one full of love and mutual respect, a meeting of minds, a true partnership. It would be a love match. Which begged the question—

“Do you love him?” Aurelia cast her eyes about the workshop for a sign of some kind, a hint of reassurance, an easy way out. Frankly, she’d been avoiding Tommaso and his mother for this very reason. Any time she tried to come up with an answer, all she came up with was panic.

Sandro put his stylus down, brushed his hands on the hopelessly stained fabric of his linen shirt. “All right, I’ll put it this way: are you still in love with Lorenzo?“

“It’s not that,” she frowned, “it’s…”

“Habit.”

She exhaled, relieved at not having to explain, then watched him pull at a wobbly chair to sit astride, arms folded on top of the battered backrest. “You know,” said the painter, “I think Tommaso may be your Rome. I think you are finally contemplating a life where you choose to be without Lorenzo—not because of his wife or your reputation, but because you’ve outgrown him, because you have your own dream. And that can be…”

“Disorienting? Terrifying?”

He smiled. “Both. When I took the Pope’s commissions I was sure—so sure—that I would fail without Lorenzo’s patronage. And now… Can you imagine the madness of turning down his offer of an academy? But it would mean going back to the way things were and I… I cannot go back, Aurelia. I am a good painter, in my _own_ right.”

“You are a great painter.” She reached for his arm. She had no idea Sandro struggled so much in emerging from Lorenzo’s shadow, but it made sense—the undercurrent of resentment, his adamance in advising her to make her own way. He knew all about habits and the fear of breaking them. He was also proof that it was possible.

Sandro took her hand, kissed the ridge of her knuckles. “And you are a remarkable woman. Tommaso Peruzzi may not be Lorenzo, but he is decent and he loves you. Whatever you choose… try not to let the past stand in your way.”

* * *

Temperate spring eased into pleasant summer. Tommaso agreed to give her at least until Christmas, when Paolo was due to return from Naples, to think his proposal over. In the meantime, they kept their understanding a secret even from their own families. They still met for chess a few times a week, still attended the same functions, sat only a few pews apart at church, but there was an awareness of possibility now, a sense that the things they did together may someday be done as husband and wife.

It was a strange time, made even stranger by the change that came over the city with Savonarola’s preaching. Niccolò and Filippo were both right in the end—there was indeed a long-stewing unrest among the people, and the friar did stoke the flames until they reached a height that could no longer be ignored by Lorenzo or the Ten. A catasto was called. It was an arduous undertaking in the days of the Priori, but the smaller scale of a Council of Ten made it all the more absorbing and Tommaso, being named over the proceedings, would have little time to spare come August. Aurelia took her dismay at the prospect as a good sign.

"Perhaps with the accounts in order Lorenzo will finally consider reinstating normal governance. Would Filippo be in agreement?”

“And Petrucci.” It was getting late. Tommaso had work to do, and although Aurelia had her light cloak draped over her arm, she was lingering, reluctant to go. As she considered the question, the layout of the Ten rose to the forefront of her mind—the men, their trades and alliances, their relationships with Lorenzo. “Soderini as well, most likely. That would bring your number up to four, and we all know you would have the support of Ardinghelli’s faction. He is insufferable, but he has influence and may be able to sway one or two of the others.” It would mean going behind Lorenzo’s back, of course, but she was starting to think he would never concede until someone took his hand from the rod.

Almost a decade gone by… Surely, that long at the helm would take its toll on anyone. _It is no way to live_ , she thought, _seeing shadows in every corner._ Not for the first time, she wished she could go to him, look upon his face, and know his thoughts. _What are you thinking, Lorenzo?_ Why did he cling to a power he had not wanted in the first place?

She stopped her pacing, found Tommaso watching her with his hand at his chin, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. She tilted her head at him inquiringly. “What is it?”

“There is no better woman in all of Florence.”

She laughed, self-conscious, but as their eyes met, she saw that he spoke in earnest. _You always thought it was Lorenzo who saw you best._ Yet here was another—a different man, not the Magnificent, but entirely hers.

What a thought, to have lost all hope only to find it in the most unexpected of places. Impulsively, she crossed the distance to where he sat behind the desk and kissed him. Aurelia felt his sharp intake of breath, the surprise at her forceful move. He was always so virtuous, yet there’d been an undertone of desire to the way he kissed her in the garden and it was that thread upon which she now pulled, her nails scraping against his scalp, her hand bringing his to rest along the curve of her waist. It was a new sensation to want without trepidation, to know she could reach out her hand and have something without pang of conscience. _He is not Lorenzo_ —but Lorenzo was never hers to begin with.

Aurelia pressed her lips to the underside of his jaw, ventured to the hollows of his throat as Tommaso came to a stand. He gripped her sides desperately, and she could feel the quickening rise and fall of his chest, the heat of his skin under her palms as they wandered inside the partially open falls of his doublet. He whispered her name on the heels of a shaky laugh, pulling back a step before she took his mouth in hers again, coaxing him for a little more time. Finally, he pulled away. His eyes were hooded, lips thoroughly kissed, and his hand gripped the desk with an intensity she noted with more than a little satisfaction. He shook his head at her. “This catasto may be the only thing preserving my honor.”

“Then I hope it ends quickly.” She kissed him again, more chastely, on the corner of his mouth. When Lucetta met her in the courtyard to bid her goodnight, it took all of Aurelia’s composure to avert her blushing face.

Fortunately for Tommaso’s honor—but not so much for his patience—the catasto took even longer than expected. By October, the grumbling of bankers and merchants and the other great families of Florence had joined that of the common people. It was an inconvenience, they said, tedious and a bore to have to present themselves at the government palace lugging piles of account books. “I have heard less complaining from children at High Mass,” he remarked on one of the rare occasions when she got to visit, but it kept him busy, and that, in turn, made the months seem to pass by more quickly, especially as he’d taken Piero de’ Medici on as an apprentice.

Unlike her son, Lorenzo’s eldest had no objection to a clerk’s duties; he was good at them, and eager to find his place among the servants of the city. Aurelia was glad. She had often observed in him a despondency that reminded her of her nephew, Bartolomeo: a heavy burden of expectation, the doomed certainty that he would never succeed in passing muster.

They were both too young to be so defeated.

It was Piero who came to her home towards the end of the catasto for the Affini accounts. Aurelia took in his sprouting limbs and young-man’s disposition with a hint of regret. What a shame it was to have missed seeing him grow up. But, perhaps, if she married Tommaso, she might still get a chance at knowing Lorenzo’s children.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” she ventured to say when he was turning to leave, “but you, Paolo, and Maddalena used to take your lessons with Poliziano in my garden when you were younger.”

The boy tucked the weighty ledgers more firmly under his arm. He had his mother’s eyes, sharp and somber, the kind that saw much and said little. “Yes, madonna,” he replied. “It was Father who used to bring us.” That stopped her short. Aurelia blinked at him, uncomfortable, until he nodded politely and wished her a good day.

The next time she saw him was a month later, when Tommaso was dead and the whole city consumed in a fury.

* * *

“Aurelia, don’t!”

No sooner had Sandro cried out the warning than Lorenzo stumbled. The table he’d been leaning against took his weight and fell with a clatter that must have echoed throughout the palazzo, and she would have gone down with him, too, if not for Sandro’s firm grip.

Piero raced forward with a cry of “Father!”, fell to his knees to help Lorenzo off the floor. For a moment, she was stunned. Whenever she pictured him, it was as he’d been after Naples: triumphant, full of vitality, capable, and strong. Now his skin had a waxy pallor that made him look years older than thirty-nine, and his chest heaved with the strain of throwing an arm around Piero’s shoulder and rising to his feet. Aurelia stood there, dumbstruck, until his son turned those scrutinizing dark eyes upon her. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Can’t you see he is unwell?”

“It’s all right, Piero.” Lorenzo steadied himself against the back of a chair. “It’s all right, you can go.”

“I am not leaving you!”

His lips moved in an attempt at a smile. “It’s all right,” he repeated. “Madonna Valori and I are old friends. There’s been an unfortunate misunderstanding, is all. Sandro, will you go with him?” Rebellion flashed across the painter’s face, then receded at the sight of the troubled boy. He held out his arm, gestured to the doors.

“Come, Piero, I think it’s best you do as your father says. Come away—I will sit with you.”

Aurelia also considered Piero. He was looking at her in disbelief, as though he could not reconcile his once-friend’s mother with the disheveled, tear-streaked woman who hit his father across the face. “Don’t worry, Piero,” she told him in a voice that was half soothing, half eerie calm. “I will make sure he keeps away from the windows.”

Piero frowned. He didn’t understand, but the blow landed where it was meant. When the doors closed and she spun once more to face Lorenzo, he was without armor, unsettled and exposed. “Aurelia, I can explain. This is all Savonarola’s doing.”

“Then why is it written on your face?”

He closed his eyes, shook his head regretfully, and his voice was almost a whisper when he said, “I never meant for this to happen…”

“Don’t,” she spat. “Don’t stand there and lie and pretend like these things just _happened_ to you. ‘I want Florence free.’ Those were _your_ words. Then you refused to step down from the Ten, you stole from this city—from your own people—!”

“I didn’t know what my mother was doing!” he defended. “The catasto…”

“You put Tommaso in charge of the catasto! _You_ did! What did you think he was going to do—that he would cover up your crimes? You knew exactly the kind of man he was!”

“He was my friend.”

“He was your _friend_? He was thrown from a window in his own home in the middle of the night!” Even saying it aloud pained her. The thought of him alone, betrayed, when all he wanted was to do the right thing… “He was your friend?” she repeated. “He was going to be my husband.”

She might as well have slapped him again. Lorenzo looked away, to the bookcases, to the wall, the closed door that hid the truth from his son. “I didn’t know,” he murmured.

“Would it have made a difference?” Aurelia came forward, fell to her knees before him on the cold, hard flags, hands folded in front of her like a penitent, voice shaking with the effort of holding back tears. “If I’d come to you, if I had begged you for his life, said, ‘Lorenzo—’”

“Please, get up,” he pleaded. “Please…”

He tried pulling her up but he was too weak. She resisted and he fell again, clinging to her as she babbled on, playacting the farce of a scene that never happened. “‘Lorenzo, I know he could cast your family down, but he is my family and I love him—I _love_ him.’” The words she never said when he was alive, because she never got the chance.

“Aurelia…”

“Would it have changed anything? Tell me!” She raised her voice, took his face in her hands the way she’d done so many times before when she kissed him. His grip tightened on her shoulders. He was stricken, could bear neither to look at her nor to look away. _He is dying._ The sudden realization dawned on her with as much dreadful certainty as when Lucetta came to her home, a wreck of disordered tears, to tell her Tommaso was dead. As sure as when Savonarola spoke of theft and all she could do was think of Riario and Ferrante and the damning statement of the Medici accounts.

 _He is dying._ His eyes fell shut at the stroke of her hands on the clammy skin of his cheeks. She felt the mad urge to hold him, never leave his side. _He can’t be dying—he can’t be dying. I won’t let him._ Then he shook his head, grave, and she knew he had answered her question.

Aurelia slid away from him as if proximity would burn. “You have broken… _everything._ ” Clumsily, she hauled herself to her feet. Lorenzo gripped the chair once more and pulled himself up. His face wore a careful mask, but his eyes brimmed as she railed, old hurts pouring out along with the new. “The love I once bore you… I would have done anything—I would have ruined myself… My family, my name… but you never would have done the same for me, would you? Because you are a Medici—you have a destiny, and the rest of us… We are all just here to prop you up—take the fall. What a fool… What a fool I must have seemed to you.”

“No,” he rasped out. “No, I loved you.”

“And it is my burden now,” she shot back. “I will carry the shame of it for the rest of my life! They say Giuliano’s son will not speak to you. God knows what you did, though I am sure you know it perfectly well. And Piero… He will never forgive you once he finds out the truth. Clarice… Giovanni… Your daughter…” She could see it now—the fallout, the dreadful waste, like dust in the wind.

Lorenzo breathed steadily now. “You cannot prove I was involved.” He did not mean to be cruel—it was the truth, simple enough, as much as anything else they’d said in this room where they’d once been in love; where they still might be, despite all.

Aurelia wiped the tear-soaked hair from her face. She felt curiously numb, like she was observing herself from distance. Like she would never feel anything again. “I have no interest in seeing your family hunted down like the Pazzi,” she said. “No, one day your house will be brought to ruin and you will know it was your own doing.” Already, the people had begun to turn. Savonarola would get his reckoning after all.

She turned for the door, a mighty pain in her chest that made it hard to breathe. “This is the end, Lorenzo. You will never see my face again.”

“Aurelia…” And though she heard it there, in her name—the truth of his love, the plea, the regret—she turned the knob and left without so much as a backward glance.

* * *

_Four years later_

It is spring again.

Her room at Manoir du Cloux gets the best light in early morning. The glow reminds her of the gardens in Palazzo d’Affini just before sunset, and the birdsong has the same carefree pitch as when she used to gather there with Simonetta. She never thought she would miss it, but she does. She misses the winding paths, the pebbly stone, the goddess touched gently by time. But those things belong to another life, one she is learning to let go by the day, by the hour, bit by bit.

In a while, Valentina will enter with her usual “Good morning!” and they will breakfast together, then go through the day’s correspondence: there will be a letter from Bona, now back in Savoy; others from Bianca and Duchess Ippolita; Novella, who will tell of the birth of her new Scottish daughter. _“At the rate you’re going, you will have enough letters to fill a hundred commentarii!”_ Lucetta would like it if she wrote a book someday—“Like Caesar”—but Aurelia suspects her sole purpose in desiring such a thing is to see her own name taken down for posterity.

She would do it, and much more, if it would make her happy.

They have seen each other nearly every day since they left Florence for the French court. Lucetta’s house in Amboise is but a stone’s throw away from the king’s residences and she is already a favorite of the court madames. Paolo has taken to calling her _nonna_ , the way Charles throws his arms wide and calls Aurelia his _belle tante_ to the great displeasure of his wife, who still resents her for her friendship with the former regent.

She cannot say Tommaso would have liked living here—there is far too much backbiting for a man who only ever sought to live an honest life—but she enjoys being a watchful outsider, and having his mother is a miracle she does not take for granted. She’d been so sure, in the beginning, that Lucetta would hate her. “Did you know Lorenzo would do it?” she asked. “Then do not urge me to leave you. You are all the family I have left.”

Lucetta Peruzzi, it turns out, was a lot more devious than any of them imagined. The constant hints about Antonia Cappelli had all been by design, the “rich daughter-in-law” always meant to be Aurelia herself. “Oh, he loved you the moment he saw you at that dreadful dinner with Antonella. Ten years I spent trying to get him to propose!” Just like that, there are a hundred stories left to tell, like the time Tommaso broke up a fistfight between her son and Petrucci’s, or how it was he who chose the opal ring Lucetta gave her six years ago, on her birthday. Every new tale strengthens her certainty that they would have been happy. There is joy in that, as well as pain. And there are other stories she tells her son—ones she was always too ashamed to share, but which he always sensed, nonetheless. Ones about Francesco, and about his godfather, about her and Lorenzo, too.

The time for secrets is past. She hopes her son will not make the same mistakes, and if she persists in befriending the new queen it is only because she recognizes the caged look in her eye, the defiant strength. Perhaps, one day, if Anne wants to hear Aurelia’s stories, she will tell her about Camilla the huntress, ever-wandering, certain, free.

_All this lonely hunger… Use it wisely, aim true; it is the weapon in your hand, but it isn't who you are._

She turns. There is the customary knock on the door and Valentina strolls in, already shuffling through the squares of folded paper. “There is one from Sandro,” she announces, and Aurelia feels a familiar certainty as she takes it and breaks the plain wax seal.

It is a letter within a letter. Sandro’s message is brief, apologetic, even. He speaks of indecision and last requests. The other is longer and bears a seal which she recognizes.

Aurelia holds it in her hand. It pulls at the weight in the pocket of her gown, the one where she keeps the astrolabe she once gave a man she loved, and all at once she knows she will keep this letter there, too, unopened, until she can bear to read its words. She thinks of summer and ancient trees, a boy with the sun in his hair, deep blue eyes, and a dream.

Then she puts it down, picks up the one from Novella. _Life—let this one be about life instead._


End file.
